


Elements of Journalism or: How to Find Friends and Alienate Your Superiors

by story_monger



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Friendship, Gen, Newspapers, Newsroom AU, Sastiel - Freeform, Sastiel Big Bang 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 13:13:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 72,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/story_monger/pseuds/story_monger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <img/>
</p><p>Sam Winchester needs a job. He's a news reporter who recently stepped down from his comfortable position with the Los Angeles Times after his mix-up in a questionable case of journalism ethics. Luckily for him, his brother and Bobby think they can snag him a job at the New Eldritch Herald, a small-town newspaper in the middle of Kansas. And they do. And Sam meets Castiel Novak: the photography editor who everyone agrees resembles the Grumpy Cat meme. Several things happen after that: Sam and Cas develop a friendship, Cas keeps photographing everything, Dean and Sam try to figure out how to be brothers again, Sam starts to realize Editor-in-Chief Michael Alef sort of hates him, and everyone partakes in a hefty dose of vigilante journalism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to artist/beta superwoman [reggie11](http://reggie11.livejournal.com/). Her deft photoshop skills and keen editorial eye have made this project what it is now. Go check out her work and [comment on her art master post.](http://reggie11.livejournal.com/9355.html) Also thanks to the lovely people running the [sastiel_bigbang.](http://sastiel-bigbang.livejournal.com/) They've definitely helped make my first BigBang tons of fun.

 

> _“Journalism will kill you, but it will keep you alive while you’re at it.”_   
> _\- Horace Greeley_

_  
_**The New Eldritch Herald – Friday, June 21, 2013**  
  
 **City advisory boards criticize downtown Walgreens proposal**  
By Ruby Sangre – The Downtown New Eldritch Leadership Council and the Historic Preservation Commission penned letters to the city protesting the proposal to build a Walgreens in historic New Eldritch.  
  
 **Fire breaks out in basement of Kohl’s**  
By Garth Fitzgerald IV – The damage is estimated to be worth $10,000, including structural and smoke damage.   
Photos by Jo Harvelle  
  
 **Local highschoolers sharpen their skills at summer football camp**  
By Hester Lowell – For ten years, Peter O’Neil has been preparing high school athletes from all over Kansas for football season.  
Photos by Castiel Novak  
  
 **Higher gas prices…**  
…  
…  
  
 **To** : New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Naomi Noble  
 **Subject** : Spelling  
  
For all reporters,  
  
I’ve seen people spelling the city treasurer’s name as John Freeman rather than Jon Freeman. We’re getting very tired of it. Always ask your sources how they spell their names, never assume.  
  
Thank you,  
  
Naomi Noble  
Copy Editor  
  
  
 **To:** Samandriel Agnelli  
 **From:** Rachel Fischer  
 **Subject** : Re: Pictures?  
  
Samandriel,  
  
I haven’t heard from Jo yet about the pictures. I’ve asked for them by noon. Will get them to you soon as possible.  
  
Rachel  
  
  
 **To:** Michael Alef  
 **From** : Joshua Gardener  
 **Subject** : Sam Winchester  
  
Michael,  
  
I’ve sent up my review of Winchester’s application. Very impressive young man. I suggest you seriously consider him, despite his background. Your father isn’t here to say it, so I will: please be professional and objective about this.  
  
Joshua  
  
  
 **To:** Joshua Gardener  
 **From:** Michael Alef  
 **Subject** : Re: Sam Winchester  
  
I’m always professional.  
  
Michael  
  
*****  
  
Sam’s heart leapt as soon as he stepped into the newsroom.  
  
He tried not to let it show as he introduced himself at the front desk, eyes darting around the bustling room. The secretary, a woman named Pam, who flirted with him so outrageously that Sam would have found it funny if his stomach weren’t in knots, grinned and nodded and pointed him toward the editor-in-chief’s office with a neatly manicured finger.  
  
“He’s just stepped out. Go on and sit your pretty ass down in that chair and he’ll be right with you.” The phone rang, and Pam wriggled her fingers toward the chair as she picked it up. “Go on then.”  
  
Sam ducked his head and tried to smile before moving swiftly past several desks.  
  
And yeah, he was in trouble.  
  
The New Eldritch Herald newsroom was not even half the size of his old workplace. The computers looked older, the carpet duller, and the atmosphere a tad less frenzied. But it was still a newsroom, complete with a garble of voices, printers whirring, phones ringing, a police scanner buzzing and periodic shouting. He hadn’t experienced this in almost a year and it created an unexpectedly deep swell of nostalgia in Sam, a sense of coming home.  
  
Sam felt himself move into a slouch to try and appear less looming than usual as he passed desk after desk. The editor-in-chief’s office stood in the middle of a long line of doors, with a small chair perched in front. Sam lowered himself into it, scanned the newsroom again. He accidentally caught the glance of a young woman with dark eyes and immediately looked down into his lap. He pulled out his cell phone and began fiddling with it.  
  
“So you’re the other Winchester.”  
  
Sam jerked his head up, heart skipping a beat. It took him a moment to process the fact that the voice had been female, not male, and that there were two figures standing before him instead of just one.  
  
“Sorry?” he blinked, unconsciously smoothing at his tie.  
  
“Dean Winchester’s your brother, right?” asked the woman, a blonde with a wry look to her. Her companion, a young man balancing a stack of notebooks in one crooked arm and a coffee mug in the other, eyed Sam with mild curiosity.  
  
“Um, yeah,” Sam launched to a stand and stuck out a hand before he could process that it wasn’t necessary. “Sam Winchester.”  
  
The blonde accepted it gamely, her grip small and firm. “Jo Harvelle,” she answered, “Photographer.” She let go of Sam’s hand and elbowed the young man. “This’s Kevin Tran, he gets paid to be a grammar Nazi.”  
  
Kevin rolled his eyes, mouth quirking into a grin and expertly transferred his mug to the top of his stack of notebooks so he could shake Sam’s hand as well. “I edit at the copy desk,” he clarified. “Sorry, Jo insisted we needed to say hello.”  
  
“I wanted first dibs on meeting the new guy,” Jo splayed her hands in front of her and shot Sam another grin. “Dean wasn’t kidding when he said you were a Sasquatch.”  
  
Sam gave an answering smile, forcing his shoulders to relax. “He’s just insanely jealous and won’t admit it,” he shrugged, causing Jo to bark a laugh and Kevin’s eyes to lighten.  
  
“Harvelle!” a voice called out.  
  
“Oh, shit,” Jo ducked slightly, peering past Kevin. Sam followed her gaze to find an older, mustachioed man leaning back in his chair, a pen pointed accusingly.  
  
“Did Rachel want the pictures for that ice cream story ready by noon, or not?” he asked.  
  
“I’m being  _friendly_ , Rufus,” Jo gestured toward Sam. “You should try it.”  
  
“I’m sure Rachel’ll be real friendly when she doesn’t have a complete photo set on her desk within two hours,” Rufus raised one eyebrow, and something in the way he shook his pen at Jo made Sam think that this was a well-rehearsed argument between two people who have known each other for too long. And indeed, Jo blew a raspberry like a five-year-old and rolled her gaze back to Sam.  
  
“Sorry, Sasquatch,” she said, straightening her button-up shirt. “Photos to edit.”  
  
“Damn straight,” Rufus’ voice drifted over from where he’d ducked back toward his computer, and Sam felt his mouth tug.  
  
Suddenly, Kevin subtly elbowed Jo and nodded at a tall figure striding through the newsroom, flipping through a packet of paper. Jo’s expression sobered immediately.  
  
“Ah. Yeah, we’re going to peace out.”  
  
“Good to meet you Sam,” Kevin said politely as Jo led them away. Sam nodded, but his eyes seemed to drift of their own accord toward the man swiftly approaching. Unbidden, he heard an echo of Dean’s words from that morning.  
  
“The guy’s a dick,” his brother had said. “The whole editorial staff is a buncha dicks, but he’s like, the king dick.”  
  
Which was why when Sam met his potential new boss for the first time, he ended up saying “Hello, Mr. Di—Alef,” and why said potential new boss had an odd expression on his face when he replied, “Please, call me Michael.”  
  
*****  
  
So that part was Dean’s fault.  
  
Actually, a lot of things in Sam’s life were Dean’s fault, and this potential new job was definitely one of them.  
  
“What do you mean my  _fault_?” Dean had asked the evening before, when they’d been sitting in his living room. “Do you want a job or not?”  
  
“I want a job,” Sam mumbled around the lip of his bottle before taking a swig. He stared hard at the game playing out on the television so he wouldn’t have to see whatever face his brother was giving him.  
  
“You’re such a priss,” Dean shook his head and swung his legs up to prop them on the coffee table.  
  
“No I’m not. Why?” Sam looked across the couch as Dean took another drink.  
  
“Yeah, Bobby and I offer you an actual reporting job on a platter and you get all fussy ‘bout it,” Dean threw up a hand. “I shouldn’t have bothered if you’re going to be a little bitch.”  
  
“Jerk,” Sam muttered into his bottle then coughed out a laugh when Dean shoved him hard enough to almost topple over the arm of the sofa.  
  
“Right, right, I’m sorry for not jumping at your offer of nepotism, Jesus,” Sam kicked at Dean’s thigh in retaliation, and maybe the fact that they were both exhausted—Dean from working at the printing press and Sam from traveling—was the only reason they didn’t descend into a wrestling match like they were kids again. Instead, Dean jerked his leg away, and threw Sam a look that was all big brother.  
  
“No, but seriously man. Why’re you acting weird about this?”  
  
Sam sighed hard and placed his beer on the coffee table, careful to use a coaster even though the wood was riddled with water rings. “In journalism…” he paused to think, interlacing his fingers. “In journalism, your credibility is everything. Everything, Dean. No one wants to associate with a reporter who might completely make up their facts.”  
  
“For God’s— _you_  didn’t make up any goddamn facts, Sammy,” Dean leaned forward, posture moving to mirror his brother’s. “Yeah, you were in the middle of a complete shitstorm, but no one thought it was your fault.”  
  
It had been, though. Sam didn’t say that.  
  
“They still asked me to resign, didn’t they?” Sam cocked his head toward Dean. “They couldn’t afford to keep anyone who was tainted by that…God, that  _complete_ breach of ethics.” He rubbed at his forehead. “All I’m saying is why should this newspaper think any different? Why should they trust me?”  
  
“Because Bobby’s known you since you were still shitting your diapers and I’m telling you man, the guy has some weight in that place. Hell, he got me a job even with my criminal record. You? You’re a good reporter from freaking Stanford, they’d be idiots to let you go.” Dean added a punch to Sam’s shoulder that was probably meant to cheer him up.  
  
“They’re going to ask about the Rodriguez story,” Sam muttered darkly. “You wait.”  
  
*****  
  
“I hope you don’t mind if we discuss the Rodriguez story,” Michael said, folding his hands on top of the open file he’d been leafing through. Sam had been idly letting his eyes roam the office, and ripped his gaze from the little gold tripod that read “Michael Alef: Editor-in-Chief.”  
  
“Of course,” he nodded, straightening his back. He beamed a thought down toward the printing press room, where he imagined his brother stacking freshly printed newspapers.  _You totally owe me a beer, Dean._  
  
“Just to hear your side of things,” Michael smiled, proper and distant. (As far as Sam could tell, everything the man did was proper and distant.) “Perhaps you could give me an overview of what happened.”  
  
Sam nodded and shifted in his seat. He’d recounted the story to so many bosses and investigators that it had gained a far too familiar cadence.  
  
“Well, you know I used to work for the Los Angeles Times,” he paused, coughed. “Um, almost a year ago, I was put on a collaboration with Azazel Gehler. We were doing a piece about the candidates for California Senator; Thomas Rodriguez being one of the major ones.” Sam folded his hands in his lap. “We published our article and at first everything seemed fine, until we received a notice that we’d gotten a fact wrong. And it sort of unspooled from there. We figured out that half the things in that article were wrong and all of the errors somehow cast Rodriguez in a bad light. Um, we realized that Azazel had made up a few of his quotes and twisted his facts.” Sam shrugged. “They found out later that Rodriguez’s opponent had paid Azazel to give Rodriguez a bad public image.”  
  
 _And I didn’t catch any of it._  
  
Sam paused as Michael shifted in his seat and picked up a sheet of stationary Sam recognized as belonging to his old editor.  
  
“Your former employer has taken the time to defend your innocence in all this,” he said slowly, his eyes lingering on the paper, and Sam got the sudden, distinct sense that Michael was going for intimidation.  
  
 _King dick_ , a Dean-sounding voice echoed in Sam’s head.  
  
“Yet you chose to resign not long after the incident?” Michael lifted his brows slightly.  
  
“Honestly?” Sam clenched his hands in his lap, because really, what was there to lose here? “I was too heavily entangled in everything. They didn’t want my name appearing next to any more of their stories. They assumed readers wouldn’t trust it anymore. Which was fair,” Sam added quickly. “It was a pretty public event; my name got tossed around with Azazel’s for a while there, until they sorted out where the mistakes came from.”  
  
“And you assumed that a small town newspaper wouldn’t have the same consternations?” Michael asked.  
  
Something cold seeped into Sam’s gut. _Two beers. Two fucking beers, Dean._ When Sam didn’t say anything for a long moment, Michael put the (apparently worthless) letter of recommendation down. It was like everything Sam’s nerve-addled imagination had dreaded, and more, as Michael leaned forward with folded hands.  
  
“The New Eldritch Herald has been reporting on this town and the surrounding areas for decades, Mr. Winchester,” he said. “I have a duty to this community to produce quality journalism that they can trust.”  
  
 _And you’re not part of that. You’re tainted._  
  
“Which is why I hire you with the greatest caution.”  
  
Sam couldn’t help it. He snapped his head up, eyes wide.  
  
“Hiring…you want to hire me?” he said dumbly, then mentally slapped himself.  
  
“Joshua gave a glowing review of your interview with him,” Michael looked down at his file folder again, the lightest of frowns on his face. “He’s been managing our human resources for as long as I’ve worked here; I trust his judgment. Mr. Singer and the other Mr. Winchester have been no less adamant supporters. And I must admit,” he glanced up again, and Sam schooled his features into something that wouldn’t resemble a frightened deer. “Your portfolio is impressive. Your article on the juvenile criminal system was widely praised. And you completed Northwestern University’s graduate journalism program?”  
  
“I did,” Sam nodded.  
  
“No small feat,” Michael closed the file folder of Sam’s information with a small puff of air. “Because of your unique situation, I’ve been left to make the final decision. And the fact of the matter is that we desperately need another news reporter. So long as you don’t follow Azazel’s example, I believe you’ll be a perfectly adequate. Of course,” and Sam swallowed whatever he’d been about to say. “You understand, if we run into any complications, I will not hesitate to let you go for the good of the newspaper.”  
  
“Of course,” Sam nodded so hard he wouldn’t have been surprised if he pulled a muscle. “Thank you.”  
  
They reached across the desk to shake hands, after which Michael scribbled a few things on a green slip of paper and stuffed it in Sam’s file.  
  
“Take this downstairs to Joshua and he’ll get you set up,” he said. “Would you manage to start work on Monday?”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
“I’ll hold you to it then,” Michael said, and even though his tone was light, nothing indicated outright friendliness.  
  
So maybe Dean had been right about the king dick thing.  
  
*****  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Anna Milton  
 **Subject** : Blog  
 **Attachment:** Blog Schedule.doc  
  
Hi all,  
  
I’ve attached a schedule for the next round of newsroom blog posts. Please look RIGHT NOW and REMEMBER what week you’re writing a blog post. As usual, I’m looking for max 300 words about what you do behind the scenes here at the Herald. Photos are great. IF YOU DO NOT SUBMIT A BLOG POST THE FRIDAY BEFORE YOUR WEEK, I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN. Seriously guys, I need everyone on board with this to make it work.  
  
Anna  
  
  
 **To:** Rachel Fischer  
 **From:** Jo Harvelle  
 **Subject:** Ice Cream Pictures  
  
Hey Rachel,  
  
I have the pictures ready but you weren’t at your desk. Have left them on a flash drive. I’ll be at lunch if you need me.  
  
Jo  
  
*****  
  
Castiel supposed that, given his workplace, gossip was to be expected. Which, as he constantly reminded specific people, did not mean that he wanted to hear it.  
  
“Such a grouch,” Anna said, tapping the back of Castiel’s head. Castiel hunched closer to his computer screen.  
  
“Please don’t do that,” he said, nudging the photo he was editing a few shades further into the blue tones. He considered the result, then reverted to what it had been before.  
  
“Ohh, he has a master’s from Northwestern,” Charlie, who was sitting cross-legged at Jo’s computer, tilted the screen toward Anna so she could see. “Had a full ride too.”  
  
“Full ride and an undergrad at Stanford? Are you sure this guy’s related to Dean?” Anna peered at a photo of a group of scholarship recipients from several years back. Charlie pointed out a young man standing in the back row. Far too tall and hair too long, Castiel decided when he glanced at the picture briefly. And too high an ISO on the part of the photographer.  
  
Castiel returned his attention to his editing and increased the brightness by a few clicks.  
  
“Dude, Dean’s wicked smart,” Charlie said, clicking out of the picture and scrolling through further Google results of ‘Sam Winchester + Los Angeles Times.’ “You ever seen him fix one of those printing machines in under a minute with deadline rolling up? Nah, they’re totally brothers.”  
  
“What do you think, Castiel?” Anna asked, and Castiel allowed himself to glance over at the two women, taking a moment to note the subtle differences in the reds of their hair. He wondered how natural light would affect the shading.  
  
“I think neither of you are photographers, and you should stop sneaking over here and distracting me,” he said, eliciting a  _look_ from Anna as per usual.  
  
“Why are you working? It’s lunch break,” she reminded him, waving a half eaten granola bar.  
  
“I’ve been asked to have this slideshow ready in an hour,” Castiel squared his shoulders and squinted at his photo, trying to determine what was nagging him about it. He tried moving it into red tones this time. “Lunch break still doesn’t explain why you’re both over here.”  
  
“You guys get the computers with the best screen quality,” Charlie said distractedly, fingers flying across the keyboard. Anna rested her crossed arms on the back of Charlie’s chair to watch her work, and Castiel flicked his eyes over to her screen despite himself.  
  
“Are you hacking into something again?” he asked quietly after a moment, and Charlie gave him a frankly wicked smile in return.  
  
“Relax, I’m just…bypassing a few firewalls to get into the Los Angeles Times’ databases. Practically legal.”  
  
“So you can stalk the new employee.” Cas shook his head. “One day Raphael or Michael will catch wind of all this and they’re going to have to fire you.”  
  
“Dude, they all know that without me the website would crash and burn,” Charlie shrugged, jabbing at the keyboard a few more times. “And sorry, but it’s not the online edition that’s losing readers.”  
  
Castiel ignored her in favor of switching back and forth between the original photo and the slightly red-hued photo. He decided to keep the red and clicked save. He minimized the file and opened the next one.  
  
“You know, I barely remember the whole Rodriguez episode,” Charlie commented mildly after several minutes of her and Anna intently reading things not technically available to the public. “How big of a deal was it?”  
  
“Pretty big,” Anna replied, straightening to take another bite from her granola bar. “There was a lot of talk about, you know, gaps in the editing process. Pretty sure Michael had Gabe write something about how the Herald does fact checking, just to make everyone feel better.”  
  
“It received more press than it needed to,” Castiel spoke up. “It happened during an otherwise slow week.”  
  
“Poor guy then,” Charlie murmured. Anna made a high-pitched, doubtful sound.  
  
“Honestly, I’m still confused as to why he resigned if he was supposed to be innocent,” she popped the last bite of granola bar in her mouth and crinkled the wrapper.  
  
“What, you think he made up stuff too?” Charlie twisted around in her chair to look up at Anna, the TARDIS on her necklace bouncing against her chest. Anna held up her hands in defense.  
  
“I don’t know, it’s just weird,” she tossed her wrapper in a bin under the computer table. “He’s out of commission for a year and then the only place that will take him is the small town newspaper where his brother works.” Castiel quietly agreed as he cropped a photo.  
  
Charlie pursed her lips as she turned back to the computer and poked at the mouse thoughtfully.  
  
“I could hack into his email accounts—“  
  
“No, you’re not hacking into email accounts on newsroom computers,” Castiel blurted, looking askance at Charlie.  
  
“I can cover my tracks.”  
  
“ _I’m_  the photo editor,” Castiel made a shooing motion. “And I say no hacking on my computers.  _You_  should be managing the website, Charlie, and  _you_ should be…chirping.”  
  
“Tweeting,” Anna said, and she really had far too much good humor in her voice for Castiel’s liking. Sometimes he strongly suspected that Anna had assigned herself as Castiel’s unofficial older sister, and had taken on the many rights of that position; such as being allowed to tease Castiel mercilessly without fearing anything worse than an irritated expression. Castiel blamed it on the fact that heads of social media and community outreach obviously had far less work than they claimed.  
  
“Yeaaaah,” Charlie mused, leaning back in her chair. “Raphael’ll be back soon, won’t she?”  
  
“Yes she will,” Castiel agreed. “She was already tetchy this morning.”  
  
“Stop the presses, there’s a tetchy editor at the New Eldritch Herald offices,” Anna nearly shouted, then descended into giggles.  
  
Charlie snorted, and at some point Castiel decided to leave them to it and start putting together captions. It was really the only response.  
  
*****  
  
New Eldritch, Kansas, with its mildly fluctuating population of 15,000, was technically speaking a large town or small city, depending on whom you asked. The air of a bustling center of commerce came partially from the small liberal arts college and largely from the town’s location in the middle of miles and miles of farmland, Dean explained.  
  
“Seriously, Sammy,” Dean’s voice drifted from where his head was stuck in the break room’s fridge. “If you want to just quit the journalism thing and try farming or ranching, this is the place to do it. I’ve got all that empty land.”  
  
“You boys would fall flat on your asses if you tried farming,” Bobby said from behind his newspaper. The three of them were gathered in the printing press’s break room after Sam had wandered in there following a few hours of paperwork with Joshua.  
  
Dean emerged from the fridge with a half-finished bottle of soda and took a swig.  
  
“But it’s a nice town,” he said, just this side of too earnest. “ A lot less going on than Los Angeles, but a cute place.”  
  
“Cute as a goddamn button,” Bobby said in a flat voice, surprising a rough laugh from Sam. Bobby’s bright eyes appeared briefly over the top of the newspaper, and Sam could tell he was smiling.  
  
“I’m just still shocked I get to report again,” Sam shook his head.  
  
 “So what did I tell you, eh?” Dean nudged Sam’s arm with an elbow.  
  
“They’re not welcoming me with open arms,” Sam stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall. “It was really clear. One major trip-up and I’m out of here.”  
  
“Sam, Michael is a lot of things, but he ain’t a fool,” Bobby folded the newspaper and slapped it on the table. “If he needs a reporter, he’s not going to send you packing that readily. Especially someone with your credentials.”  
  
“I’m damaged goods though,” Sam shrugged and then visibly flinched at the baleful eye Bobby sent in his direction.  
  
“For God’s sake, let me know once you’ve shut down the pity party,” Bobby stood up and adjusted his cap. “Do what you always do and no one upstairs will be able to say a bad word against you. Simple as that.”  
  
Sam wasn’t entirely sure, but he nodded as Bobby slapped him on the shoulder and let his hand rest there for a brief squeeze. Then the moment was over and Bobby was gesturing at Dean.  
  
“Let’s go, there’s a weird noise coming from unit seven I want to look at.”  
  
“Yeah, be there in a minute,” Dean waved his hand as Bobby opened the break room door and released a sudden crescendo of the noise that had been humming in the background the whole time. The chugging sound of newspapers being printed dimmed again as Bobby let the door swing shut behind him.  
  
“We need to get him a present or something,” Sam said idly, watching Bobby disappear from view. “I’m pretty sure he’s the reason Michael took my application as seriously as he did.”  
  
“Yeah, we can buy him a new yell-at-Sammy cap,” Dean said, shifting his position to face his brother. “Hey, so you said you agreed to start work Monday.”  
  
“Um,” Sam jingled the loose change in his pockets. “Yes.”  
  
“And so you gave yourself two days to get all your stuff over here and find an apartment,” Dean stated more than asked.  
  
“It’s possible I wasn’t thinking this through,” Sam admitted. “So…I can use your couch for a few days?”  
  
“Dude, you can live on my couch if you need to,” Dean shrugged. “I just assumed you’d want your own space.”  
  
Sam shrugged, and made a noncommittal sound. The idea of setting up permanent residence on his older brother’s couch may not have been his goal two years out of graduation, but facts were facts. Sam had been unemployed for nearly a year, the cost of living never went down, and no one got into journalism for the money.  
  
“We’ll see,” Sam said. “If you’re not busy, I might recruit you help me haul a few things. I’ll find a storage box or something.”  
  
“Whatever you need,” Dean agreed, and Sam didn’t miss the way his brother was positively glowing. It made him wonder how lonely Dean had gotten out here, even if he did have Bobby. It would, Sam suddenly thought, not be the worst thing to share a space with Dean again. It would be the first time they had done so since Sam had left for his undergraduate studies at Stanford so many years ago.  
  
And as a very distinct Bobby yell filtered into the break room, and Dean promised that they’d go somewhere good that night to properly celebrate before darting into the printing press room, Sam allowed himself to consider that this didn’t actually have to be a bad thing at all.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

> _“Reporting is the best school in the world to get a knowledge of human beings, human nature, and human ways. No other occupation brings a man into such familiar sociable relations with all grades and classes of people.”_  
>  _\- Mark Twain_

**The New Eldritch Herald – Monday, June 24, 2013**  
  
 **Local ice cream parlor celebrates 25 years**  
By Rachel Fischer – Yvonne and Paul Terlecki have been running the Lovecraftian-themed Innsmouth Ice Cream since 1988, serving such favorites as Cthulhu Crunch and NecronoMint.  
Photos by Jo Harvelle  
  
 **Cause of Kohl’s fire still unclear**  
By Garth Fitzgerald IV – While the exact cause of the fire is still under investigation, it is not believed foul play was involved.  
  
 **New Eldritch man remembered for his kindness, humor**  
By Tessa Harvester – Oliver Whittington, who passed away on Sunday at the age of 83 from a heart attack, could often be found volunteering…  
  
*****  
  
It was 8:05 a.m. on a Monday morning, on an empty stretch of Highway 12 and Castiel really shouldn’t be doing this. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel of his idling Kia, then ducked his head to peer out of the passenger door window again. The bird, with its black-and-white striped plumage, was still ripping at the remains of a squirrel at the top of an oak, right off the side of the road.  
  
Castiel glanced behind him in case any cars were approaching and then examined the bird again. A goshawk, he guessed, though he was no expert. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a raptor this close up.  
  
With a determined motion, Castiel finally killed the engine and strained toward the back seat to grab his camera. Just a few shots.  
  
Ten minutes later, shoes muddy and overcoat covered in burrs, Castiel muttered under his breath as he scrolled through a series of miserable pictures; too blurry or the bird looking in the wrong direction or the lighting off. He needed a tripod.  
  
Castiel considered increasing the shutter speed again and then rounded the oak to try a different angle. The bird hadn’t seemed particularly perturbed by Castiel’s presence at the base of the tree, but he was sure to move slowly just in case.  
  
Once he was situated, Castiel brought the shutter speed up to 1/600 of a second in a fit of decision. He raised the camera to his eye and watched the bird cock its head through the lens.  
  
As his finger pressed down on the shutter release button, the goshawk exploded in a flurry of beating wings and glinting talons. Castiel automatically followed the goshawk’s progress, camera clicking in a staccato.  
  
Cursing, he lowered his camera when the bird disappeared over a copse of trees. He looked behind him just in time to see what had disturbed the goshawk; an old black car roaring far over the speed limit. Something about it nagged at Castiel, but he couldn’t begin to explain why as the car zipped past him, swerving into the middle of the road to avoid Castiel’s car where he’d pulled it over minutes before.  
  
“Thanks!” he yelled at the back of the car, then moodily stuffed his camera (carefully) into its pack. He wasn’t interested in looking at twenty blurred pictures of one skittish bird.  
  
Castiel climbed back into his car and started the engine, checking the time on the dashboard. 8:17 a.m. If he hurried, he’d still get to the newsroom by 8:30.  
  
He ended up pulling into the New Eldritch Herald parking lot at 8:33 a.m. He slung his camera pack on one shoulder and his briefcase on the other, locked his car, and speed-walked toward the building, bags bouncing against his thighs.  
  
He didn’t bother greeting Pam, who was always very cool toward him in any case, and hustled toward the back of the newsroom where the photography section was tucked into a far corner. Jo was already there, feet hitched up on the seat and shins knocking against the edge of the table as she swiveled back and forth. She clicked a pen idly as she scanned her emails.  
  
“Good morning,” Castiel greeted, trying not to sound like he was attempting to catch his breath. He dumped his bags on an empty seat and began rooting through his briefcase in search of his notepad.  
  
“Something happen this morning?” Jo asked, clicking the pen a few more times.  
  
“A goshawk,” Castiel replied, extracting the notepad and beginning a search for a pen. “Did the ice cream—oh, thank you.” He accepted the pen Jo held out to him. “Did the ice cream story pan out alright?”  
  
“I got my photos to Rachel by noon,” Jo shrugged. “Whether or not she was happy with them, who the hell knows?”  
  
Castiel shot a glance at the clock and winced. “I want to go over the results of the wine tasting photo shoot with you,” he said in a hurry. “Will you be here after the meeting?”  
  
“I’ll be here,” Jo nodded, starting up the swiveling again and opening a game of solitaire.  
  
“Try to be a little bit productive, please,” Castiel called out as he hurried toward the editors’ meeting room with his tie flapping over his shoulder.  
  
“—may have to move Gordon’s story to Wednesday,” Hester was saying as Castiel opened and shut the door as quietly as he could manage. No one paid him particular attention, except for Samandriel, who offered him a tiny smile as Castiel slid into the seat next to him. Castiel nodded at him before he flipped to a fresh page on his notepad and clicked his pen.  
  
He looked up at the whiteboard at the front of the room, where planned stories for the next several weeks were written on a large calendar. Michael was erasing “New Lacrosse Coach” from tomorrow’s Tuesday block and shifting it to Wednesday.  
  
“That should be fine,” Raphael said as Michael popped the cap on the marker and slid back into his seat. “Change the online outline, Hester, and make sure you have something to lead sports for tomorrow. Next?”  
  
Michael looked down at his laptop. “Zachariah, I definitely want a brief on the school board’s meeting tonight. You said they’re approving a new math curriculum?”  
  
Castiel let himself zone out—school board meetings rarely involved his department—and instead watched the particular way a stray beam of morning sunlight fell on the royal blue of Balthazar’s blazer. He wondered how one could try and capture the warmth of the sunlight without washing out the blue of the fabric, mentally fiddling with camera settings and angles.  
  
Castiel took a moment to realize he was being addressed and jerked his head toward the front when Raphael said his name.  
  
“Sorry?” he blurted, pen shifting to the pad.  
  
“I said I want you or Jo to accompany Victor to his interview today,” Raphael said, her voice just this side of too cool. “He’s leaving around 2 p.m., make sure someone in photography is available.”  
  
“Yes, of course,” Castiel nodded down at his notepad as he scrawled out a reminder.  
  
It took about twenty more minutes for Raphael and Michael to cobble together an outline of the day’s news, after which Raphael shut her laptop and folded her hands on top of it. Everyone in the room straightened slightly.  
  
“I’m certain everyone already knows this, but we have a new reporter coming in today,” she said. “Sam Winchester, previously of the Los Angeles Times. He’ll be working in daily news under Zachariah.”  
  
The table stirred with a lot of nodding and meaningfully exchanged glances, and finally Uriel spoke up.  
  
“Is there a specific reason we’re hiring a man with such a…questionable background?” Castiel darted a look around table, then up at Raphael. She looked over at Michael with her eyebrows raised. Michael cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.  
  
“It’s not ideal,” he admitted. “But his former editor wrote a letter outlining how he was innocent in the Rodriguez matter. And I’ve already made it clear to him that at the slightest hint of an issue, we’re going to ask him to leave.” He looked around the table, eyes clear and jaw firm, and it reminded Castiel why he always regarded Michael with an odd mixture of respect, admiration and fear. “I promise you, I am the last person who would want to ruin the vision my father had when he made this newspaper what it is today. We—“  
  
 _crackle_  
  
Michael paused for a moment. In that moment everyone subtly glanced around to find Gabe noisily unwrapping a Twix bar at the far end of the table. No one said a word—they never did—including Gabe himself. He merely grinned genially and stuck the Twix bar in his mouth.  
  
“We also are in the vicious cycle of an understaffed newsroom, fewer readers, and a shrinking budget,” Michael continued, brows just a tad lower over his eyes. “Raphael and I have determined that we have two options. We can keep asking too much from our staff and end up with subpar reporting. Or we hire some help, create more content, and in the meantime tighten our belts. For now, we’re tightening. If the fresh blood doesn’t help, then we can send him off with minimal fuss.”  
  
“Maybe not, if Bobby and Dean have anything to do with it,” Castiel heard Anna murmur to someone.  
  
“That still doesn’t answer Uriel’s question,” Zachariah said. “We need more reporters, yes. But did it have to be the Winchester boy?”  
  
“He’s perfectly adequate for our purposes,” Michael said. He seemed to hesitate, glancing once at Raphael before continuing. “We’re considering keeping him strictly to briefs. He has little chance to cause damage there.” Castiel’s eyes narrowed before he could help himself. “In any case,” Michael continued, “if anyone feels the need to discuss it with me further, they know where my office is.”  
  
With that, he slapped his laptop shut. Like flipping a switch, the meeting room descended into papers shuffling, chairs scraping back, and voices rising.  
  
“Zachariah, a word,” Raphael called out in the midst of it all.  
  
Castiel, meanwhile, frowned down at his notepad. His pen clicked in a feverish staccato, like his camera shutter chasing after a fleeing goshawk.  
  
*****  
  
 **To:** Zachariah Smith  
 **From:** Uriel Benedict  
 **Subject:** Winchester  
  
Concerning what we were discussing earlier: Naomi has offered to edit all of his pieces personally.  
  
Uriel  
  
  
 **To:** Uriel Benedict  
 **From:** Zachariah Smith  
 **Subject:** Re: Winchester  
  
Might be for the best. Raphael and Michael have just set some strict rules for how I’m to manage Winchester. But I’ll accept Naomi’s offer nonetheless. Can’t be too careful.  
  
Zachariah  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Raphael Dusan  
 **Subject:** New Employee  
  
Newsroom Staff,  
  
I’m pleased to announce the arrival of a new employee today, Sam Winchester. He’s come to us from the Los Angeles Times to work at the news desk. Please make him feel welcome!  
  
Raphael  
  
*****  
  
“Dean!” Sam barked, and it took another split second for Dean to register the car pulled over on the side of the road. He swerved the Impala to the left, crossing the divide line.  
  
“Fuck,” Dean said with feeling. “The hell was that idiot doing?”  
  
Sam craned his neck, trying to figure out if said idiot needed help. All he saw was an impression of a dark head of hair and a tan overcoat. In any case, the person didn’t look in particular distress. Sam twisted back around in his seat.  
  
“Dunno,” he said as he reached out to turn down the Black Sabbath blasting from the speakers. Dean’s hand slapped him away.  
  
“Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole,” he said.  
  
“I didn’t  _say_  anything.”  
  
“Principle of the matter.”  
  
“You drive too fast when you have this kind of music on. Faster than your normal too fast, I mean.”  
  
“Jeez, grandma, you wanted to get there on time, didn’t you?”  
  
“I didn’t want to nearly cause an accident either.”  
  
“Hey, he’s the one who left his stupid Kia in the middle of the road,” Dean jerked his thumb behind him.  
  
Sam sighed and slouched in his seat, then immediately straightened because he didn’t want to wrinkle his clothes.  
  
“Maybe I should drive myself tomorrow.”  
  
“Thought you were trying to save money on gas,” Dean glanced over, and something in his voice made Sam turn his head to look out the window. He shrugged, and let Ozzy Osbourne fill the space between them.  
  
They pulled into the parking lot seven minutes later, and Sam could already feel the moisture collecting on the palms of his hands. He unbuckled his seat belt and looped his messenger bag strap over his head. He was reaching out to open the door when a hand landed on his arm. He looked over.  
  
“I can hear you thinking from here,” Dean said. “It’s gonna be fine.”  
  
Sam blinked under a sweeping sense of déjà vu, and it took him a moment to realize that this was Dean every time they had started a new school, every time they came into a new town. He forced out a smile.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
He said goodbye to Dean in the building’s lobby, repeatedly assuring Dean that yes, he’d text him when he was finished and no, he wasn’t going to freak out; God Dean, he wasn’t ten.  
  
“The guy still thinks he’s my mother,” Sam muttered to himself as he jogged up the stairs to the second floor where the newsroom was located.  
  
Pam greeted him with even more ostentatious flirting, if possible.  
  
“Exciting to have a new face on board,” she said brightly as she stuck a packet of papers in a manila envelope and handed it across the desk. “This is a basic manual on how we do things around here. Important contacts, stylebook, all that. Someone’ll walk through it with you.” She gestured behind her. “We’re setting you up with daily news, so I’m sending you to Zachariah. If you go past the printing station, it’s the collection of desks next to Michael’s office.”  
  
“Thanks,” Sam managed to slip in, then after a final loud wink from Pam, he followed the same path he’d taken on Friday. He glimpsed more faces turned toward him, more frequent glances; a susurrus of conversation that, if he were being paranoid, he might have thought had to do with him.  
  
“Winchester?” Sam focused on the portly, balding man emerging from an office a few doors down from Michael’s.  
  
“Yes sir,” Sam shook the man’s hand, nearly engulfing it in his own.  
  
“Zachariah Smith,” the man said, watery smile still in place, “News Editor. Welcome to New Eldritch.”  
  
“Pleased to be here,” Sam nodded as another man, the same one who’d yelled at Jo yesterday, approached them with a handful of papers and a concentrated expression as he flipped through them.  
  
“Ah, Rufus,” Zachariah dropped Sam’s hand and ducked toward his office. “Can I leave you to set Winchester up? I have an editors’ meeting to get to.”  
  
“Mm,” Rufus lifted his gaze from his papers to look Sam up and down. “The other Winchester kid, isn’t it?”  
  
“I…” Sam twitched his neck slightly to follow Zachariah’s progress as he went back into his office. Through the open door, he watched him gather a laptop and several papers before striding toward one of the doors lining the far wall without a backwards glance. “I mean yes, sir.”  
  
He found Rufus watching him with an expression far too reminiscent of Bobby.  
  
“I don’t know what the rules were in your old job,” he said, slapping his papers on top of his keyboard. “But my name isn’t Sir. You call me Rufus.” He thought a moment. “Though if you want to play it safe, go ahead and keep the sir for Zachariah. And Michael. Any of the editors, really, unless they’re a ma’am.”  
  
“Yes s—yeah.” Sam thought he saw a glimmer of a laugh in Rufus’ eye, but then the man gestured at the manila envelope in Sam’s hand.  
  
“You want to pull that out and we’ll give you a crash course on what you’ll be doing?”  
  
For the next twenty minutes, Sam did a lot of nodding and “mm hmm”ing as Rufus laid out the basics of the New Eldritch Herald newsroom. That the online story submission system was not actually as complicated as it looked. That he’d not be allowed to publish with anyone other than the New Eldritch Herald. That Jody Mills, the public relations officer down at the police station, was real friendly and always best caught between 9 a.m. and 3 p.m. That he’d best get to know about Singenta, the local fertilizer plant, since they were the largest single employer and tax provider in the county.  
  
“Now,” Rufus leaned back in his chair after all this and pointed his pen at Sam. “The Garrison. That’s the cute little name we’ve come up with for the editorial staff.” He swung the pen toward the meeting room in which Zachariah had disappeared along with the rest of the editors. They were all partially visible through the window that extended parallel to the long table. The blinds cut off a few faces.  
  
“You met Michael,” Rufus began, and Sam found the editor-in-chief’s neat black hair and handsome face. “His family owns the paper, and his old man used to run it before he disappeared. He’s tough but decent — basically stay on his good side. Same with the managing editor.” Sam followed the pen’s progress to the woman in the pantsuit. “Raphael. She runs a tight ship, but she knows what she’s doing.  
  
“Zachariah is…” Rufus took a moment to suck at his teeth. “He’s sharp.” He left it at that.  
  
“Then we have Naomi leading the copy desk — for God’s sake stay away from the passive sentences or she’ll cover your story in so much red you’ll think someone bled on it. Uriel runs the business section, Rachel does features and Hester has sports.” He glanced at Sam. “You following?”  
  
“Yup,” Sam nodded, already running names through his memory.  
  
“Then we’ve got the more laid back editors. Samandriel does layout and design. Quiet kid. I like him. Balthazar with lifestyle—never try to drink him under the table, it’s not going to happen. Gabe runs the opinions section—two things to know: if you want to get on his good side, give him candy. And he’s a genius at pranks so keep your eyes open. Then Anna is our social media gal. You know, the…Facebook stuff. Community outreach.”  
  
“Anna. Social media,” Sam muttered. He pointed suddenly at a head of dark hair, something pinging in his brain. “Who’s that?”  
  
“Oh right, Castiel,” Rufus tapped his pen against his temple. “Photography. Funny guy. Doesn’t talk much. Talented, though.”  
  
“Castiel,” Sam repeated, then nodded at Rufus. “I think I’ve got it.”  
  
“Yeah?” Rufus half grinned. “Good. Now,” he gestured to a collection of about five desks, which had slowly been filling in over the last half hour. “Welcome to the daily news desk. Say hello, everyone.”  
  
Three people looked up from their computers as if they hadn’t been eavesdropping the whole time, all with varying expressions of curiosity. Sam smiled tightly back at them as Rufus went down the line.  
  
Garth (“education and whatever other story we need him to cover”) was a gangling man, his desk filled with small action figures and miscellaneous knick-knacks where it wasn’t filled with stray pencils and notebooks. He gave a completely un-ironic salute when Rufus introduced him.  
  
Victor and Ruby—government, law and policy—both offered polite smiles when Rufus introduced them as the most determined pair of reporters he’d ever worked with.  
  
“By which I mean a pair of mules. And then there’s me,” Rufus continued. “Assistant news editor.”  
  
“Ender of procrastination and general whip,” Victor piped up, leaning back in his chair with his hands on his head.  
  
“All you sorry sacks need it too,” Rufus didn’t miss a beat. “That’s about it. Everyone, play nice with the new kid or I assign you to cover the health board meeting. Alright.” He picked up the pile of papers he’d been rifling through earlier. “While I’ve got everyone’s attention, let’s get some preliminary assignments out. Sam, you take the empty desk next to Ruby there.”  
  
Sam nodded, gathering his myriad papers to carry past Garth’s action figures and Ruby’s brown mane of hair. He caught a flash of her dark eyes when he sat down and he suddenly realized who he’d glimpsed on Friday while waiting outside Michael’s office.  
  
“Most important is the school board meeting tonight,” Rufus picked up the first paper from his stack. “Garth, you’ll want to stand by for when Zachariah comes back. He may have a few requests from up top.”  
  
As Rufus handed Garth the paper, Sam felt himself relax in his seat. The task of relegating assignments in the morning felt so familiar, so  _expected_ , that Sam could almost imagine he hadn’t spent the past ten months spending more time job hunting than writing.  
  
So what if his section only had five other people in it and his readership encompassed a small city in the middle of Kansas? He was here. He was actually here, and he was raising his hand to claim the press release the local Humane Society had faxed that morning. Because why shouldn’t he get to write an article about a new dog park?  
  
“Like dogs?” Ruby asked as she handed him the fax, face bright.  
  
“Love them,” Sam admitted. He shrugged. “Probably ‘cause I never got to have one as a kid.” Ruby looked about to say something before Rufus called out her name—something in conjunction with a report released by the hospital—and Sam ducked his head to the press release again.  
  
As he read it, he could hear the newsroom buzzing to life around him, Ruby asking Rufus something about the report, the meeting room door opening to release the editors. A smile tugged at the edges of his lips as he dug through his bag to find his battered reporter’s notebook.  
  
He was already penciling a few names to call in the margins of the press release when he heard his name. He glanced up through his hair to find Zachariah standing with Rufus.  
  
“Yes sir?” he said, and caught Rufus’ eye for a moment.  
  
“You have that dog park press release?” Zachariah asked.  
  
“I do.”  
  
“Hand it over to Victor,” Zachariah gestured lazily. “I have some briefs I want you to put together.” There followed a very peculiar moment of hesitation, when Sam acutely felt four sets of eyes flick between him and Zachariah. Like a group of schoolchildren waiting to see if a fight would materialize.  
  
Which made no sense, because any number of reasons explained Zachariah’s request. Perhaps Victor already knew the sources, or he’d covered this topic once before, or Zachariah simply wanted a sample of Sam’s writing in the form of a few harmless briefs rather than a longer article.  
  
And it really didn’t explain why, when Sam stood and reached across the desks to deliver the press release to Victor, the man gave him a brief expression of embarrassment.  
  
Then Zachariah delivered a fresh collection of three press releases and Sam let the whole thing go with a mental shrug.  
  
By the time lunch swung around, Sam had nearly finished chugging out the three briefs—two about road closures and one about a break-in that had happened last night. Honestly, Sam hadn’t been entirely sure why anyone was bothering with the last one. Nothing had even been stolen and he’d gathered from Officer Mills that the perpetrator had been the homeowner’s drunken ex-husband.  
  
Then again, small newspaper.  
  
Lunch hour was a nebulous affair, according to Rufus. So when Sam’s phone buzzed with a text from Dean around 12:30, he decided to save his Word document and clock out.  
  
He had just reached Pam’s empty desk when he heard a bright, “Sam!” He turned around to find Jo from Friday speed-walking toward him, a royal blue lunch box hanging from her shoulder.  
  
“Hey,” she greeted again once she’d caught up with him. “Heading down to the printing press for lunch, right?” Sam barely had time to nod before she added, “Me too, I’ll show you the way.”  
  
“Thanks,” Sam kept walking, trying to keep his stride smaller. “You, uh, you friendly with Dean and Bobby?”  
  
“Friendly with their break room’s microwave,” Jo patted her lunchbox. “The microwave up here is this close to dying—here, go down these steps. No, but seriously, I love hanging out with those guys.”  
  
“Me too,” Sam said without thinking, then pressed his lips together. Jo didn’t appear to have heard him, or pretended not to, as she led them down an echoing stairwell. The chugging sound of the printing press gathered around them as they descended.  
  
Jo opened a door at the bottom of the stairwell to reveal fluorescent light and cavernous concrete room encasing a row of whirring machines. Sam had never quite puzzled out why the press seemed so busy at every time of day. When he’d asked Bobby, he’d received a snort and a proclamation that Sam was obviously “from upstairs.”  
  
“Yo Dean, I found your little brother,” Jo called out. Sam looked around for Dean, then caught sight of him on the far end of a machine, hauling stacks of freshly printed newspapers into large carts. Dean nodded at them once, then concentrated on keeping up with the machine’s output.  
  
“C’mon, I want to get at the microwave before he’s done,” Jo jerked her head, and Sam followed with a brief wave at his brother. It felt good, somehow, to see Dean in this environment. He fit in with the machinery and concrete, with his work gloves and rhythmic motion between conveyer belt and cart. For a few years there, Sam had been quietly worried that Dean would forever languish in alcohol and one night stands. But this job…Sam could see it. It made Dean more confident. More relaxed. God bless Bobby.  
  
Jo was pulling out a plastic sandwich box when Sam entered the break room, popping it open to reveal a burger and fries that looked like restaurant take-out.  
  
“Dean taken you to the Roadhouse yet?” Jo asked, sticking the whole thing in the microwave and slamming the door shut.  
  
“No, he hasn’t,” Sam lowered himself in an empty chair. “You recommend it?”  
  
“I’m sort of duty-bound to,” Jo flashed a grin back at him. “My mom owns it.”  
  
“Oh,” Sam nodded and gestured to the whirring microwave. “So…free food.”  
  
“Free leftovers,” Jo shrugged, leaning against the counter. “I feel like I should be sick of this stuff after serving it for most of my life but…” she shrugged again. “Mom’s a good cook.”  
  
“A  _damn_ good cook,” Dean agreed, letting the door swing shut behind him. He waved his hand between Sam and Jo. “I don’t need to make introductions here.”  
  
“Jo’s been—“  
  
“Stalking,” Jo finished, and Sam didn’t bother correcting her.  
  
“Sounds like you,” Dean said, striding toward the refrigerator for his lunch—leftover pizza they’d had for dinner last night. “So let’s hear it Sammy,” he called out. “How’s it going so far?”  
  
“Good,” Sam unrolled his brown paper bag. He took the time to pull out the salad he’d made himself before continuing. “Everyone seems nice.”  
  
Jo snorted and popped open the microwave, surrendering it to Dean. “You’ve got Zachariah, Sam, there’s nothing nice about that.”  
  
“He’s no worse than any other editor I’ve had,” Sam said, cracking the lid off his salad (and pointedly ignoring the side-eye Dean was giving it). “And I like Rufus and the rest.”  
  
“Rufus is pretty great,” Jo admitted, sitting across from Sam. “He’s an old buddy of Bobby’s.”  
  
“Really?” Sam glanced over at Dean. “Why haven’t we ever met him?”  
  
“Dude, you’ve kind of been out of the picture the last few years,” Dean gave a one-shouldered shrug and kept his eyes on the rotating pizza. Sam opened his mouth, closed it, then speared a cucumber.  
  
“So all the editors are dicks, huh?” he said a touch too loudly.  
  
“Who said that? Dean, did you say that?” Jo asked. “Not all of them.”  
  
“Most of them,” Dean rectified, joining the table. “Zachariah is definitely a dick. He gives you trouble, Sammy, I’m ripping his lungs out.”  
  
“We’re not in high school anymore, Dean,” Sam muttered beneath Jo’s laughter.  
  
“You seem to like Anna,” Jo pointed a fry at Dean before popping it in her mouth. She was rewarded with a very Dean-specific expression that told Sam plenty about the relationship between Anna and his brother.  
  
“What about your editor,” Sam asked Jo. “Cas something?”  
  
“Castiel Novak. I like him a lot,” she said. “He’s sort of a photography genius, if you ask me. Some of the photos he’s given us,” she made an exploding motion near her head.  
  
“Whenever I’ve tried to talk to him, I feel like I’m trying to communicate with a door,” Dean said.  
  
“He’s socially awkward,” Jo allowed. “But he’s still a genius. You can tell me if you agree, Sam, once you’ve worked with him a little.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam nodded. He poked at a limp piece of lettuce with his fork and caught a glimpse in his mind’s eye of tan overcoats and dark hair and a Kia sitting on the side of the road.


	3. Chapter 3

 

> _“Journalism is literature in a hurry.”_  
>  _\- Matthew Arnold_

 

 **The New Eldritch Herald – Thursday, July 11, 2013**  
  
 **Bluebird Park reopens pool**  
By Bela Talbot – After closing for two weeks to fix a plumbing problem, the pool is open for business once again.  
Photos by Castiel Novak  
  
 **Despite opposition, City Council approves Walgreens construction in historic downtown New Eldritch**  
By Ruby Sangre – Construction is planned to begin in late November, giving opposers a few months to retaliate.  
  
 **New prostate cancer screening recommendation receives criticism**  
By The Associated Press/Victor Henriksen – Urologists and men with prostate cancer voice concerns over a panel’s recommendation to limit screening.  
  
 **Kansas football: six players to watch in 2013**  
By Gordon Walker - Here are six lesser-known athletes who will play a big part in Kansas’ postseason quest.  
Photos by Jo Harvelle  
  
 **OPINION: Why are we really worried about the Walgreens?**  
By Gabe Lokey – Since when does rehabilitating an empty building cause so much kerfuffle?  
  
*****  
  
Sam Winchester had been in the newsroom for two weeks and four days before Castiel exchanged so much as three words with him.  
  
Then came a Thursday afternoon when Rufus came barreling over to Castiel’s desk.  
  
“We’ve got a major fire on Lucas Street,” he barked, the police scanner at his desk crackling loud enough to be heard across the newsroom. “Is Jo around?”  
  
“She’s with Ruby,” Castiel leapt from his computer and snagged his second-best camera. “I’ll go. Who are you assigning?” Rufus hesitated, and Castiel snatched a glance toward the daily news desk. It contained a solitary figure, sharp hazel eyes watching Rufus’ every move.  
  
Castiel looked back to Rufus and saw the frustration on his face.  
  
“Zachariah told me not to assign him anything myself, damn him,” Rufus muttered, wiping his hand across his face and spitting out a few other choice words. Castiel blinked at the revelation, then looked to Sam again. The man sat leaning forward with his elbows at right angles.  
  
“We don’t have time,” Castiel swung his overcoat around his shoulders. “You send him with me or find someone else.” He closed his mouth with a sense of vertigo, as if someone else had been speaking instead of him. Rufus huffed once, then whirled around and strode toward the news desk.  
  
“Winchester,” he pointed. “We have a fire.” Sam all but jumped from his seat, notebook and three pens slipped into his pocket. “Here,” Rufus opened a desk drawer and tossed Sam a neon yellow worker’s vest. Sam caught it deftly and looked over at Castiel with an oddly bright expression. Castiel took a moment before deciding it reminded him of dogs left inside a house too long, waiting for someone to open the door.  
  
“Here’s the address,” Rufus thrust a printout of the police scanner between them. “Someone figure out who’s driving.”  
  
“You drive,” Sam said, and somehow his voice was different from what Castiel had expected. “I still don’t know my way around here.”  
  
Castiel nodded and took the printout from Rufus, rechecked at he had all his lenses then strode from the newsroom with Sam at his heels. He glanced back once or twice at Sam as they jogged down the steps and into the parking lot.  
  
When Castiel unlocked his car, only then did Sam stop short and say, “That’s yours?” Castiel paused, one hand on the handle.  
  
“Yes,” he said, trying not to broadcast his impatience too much. Sam shook his head very minutely, mumbled some apology, then opened the passenger side door and folded himself into the seat. Castiel was reminded of a clown car but suspected it’d be inappropriate to say so.  
  
Sam read the printout as Castiel pulled out of the parking lot, his brow furrowing into a small arch.  
  
“Where is this?” he asked suddenly when Castiel slowed at a red light. “I mean, is this residential or a business?”  
  
“Lucas Street? That’s residential. On the outskirts of town,” Castiel glanced over. “Might be one of the farming families. I can’t say for sure.” He bit at his lip absentmindedly as Sam yanked his notebook from his pocket and scribbled something down briefly. He tried to envision the man beside him fabricating quotes.  
  
“I’m Castiel, by the way,” he said. The light changed and he pulled forward. “We’ve never properly met.”  
  
“Right, yeah, Sam Winchester,” Sam tucked the notebook and pencil in his lap. “Um, Jo talks about you a lot. Good things,” he added quickly. “I mean, some complaining, but just the standard way everyone complains about…bosses…” He shut his mouth with an audible click, and seemed to sink a little in his seat. Castiel watched the performance with something he recognized as mild amusement.  
  
“She complains to me about me too,” he said, and was gratified to see the way the edges of Sam’s eyes relaxed. They drove through a few more intersections before Castiel spoke up again. “Have you ever covered a fire before?”  
  
“A few times,” Sam said, peering out of the passenger window. “I never did a fire department beat though. I’ve always been focused on law and court news. It’s um,” he looked back at Castiel. “It’s interesting working with a smaller staff. There aren’t really strict beats.”  
  
“No,” Castiel agreed, making a left hand turn. “They tend to grab whoever is available. Hence, you and I.” He pointed down the street, which had already become more rural than urban. “I see the smoke.”  
  
They pulled up in front of an older looking house with faded white siding and black smoke billowing from the left side. A collection of emergency vehicles sat in the front yard, a policeman already stretching yellow tape around the property.  
  
Sam and Castiel clacked open the car doors, press passes already out. While Sam stayed to find a police officer free enough to talk to him, Castiel immediately ducked under the police tape. The best shots were always closer to the action and everyone was too busy to yell at him for it.  
  
The next forty minutes passed in a blur of uniformed personnel, radios crackling and the shout of firefighters as they got the blaze under control. Castiel discovered the exact charcoal blackness of the smoke and house’s remains against a vivid blue sky. He spent a long time trying to grasp that contrast, dodging firefighters and paramedics to catch just the right angle.  
  
At one point an initially unfamiliar voice called his name and he turned to find Sam’s form looming above those around him. He pointed to where a figure, man or woman Castiel couldn’t tell, was being wheeled to meet a waiting ambulance.  
  
Sam held up an open hand.  _Thought you might be interested._  
  
Castiel took a few shots, and ended up with one that he decided he liked.  
  
Then he focused on the uniformed men and women, trying to catch the controlled chaos of the situation in their faces and postures, their silhouettes against the charred house. It wasn’t easy since they often regarded him with the same brand of tired annoyance they always gave the media. Castiel understood why they looked at him like that but then he ignored it and did his job.  
  
Eventually, he wandered back to the other side of the police tape and that led to this scene: Sam Winchester crouched in front of a red-eyed boy, probably no more than fourteen. He was nodding and obviously trying not to cry and when Castiel let his eyes wander down, he saw that his hand clutched Sam’s sleeve. Sam’s reporter’s notebook was closed and stuck in his pocket, his expression open.  
  
Castiel’s camera came up almost before he realized it.  
  
A few clicks of the shutter.  
  
The next thing Castiel recalled was he and Sam standing together, the boy left to the care of a paramedic.  
  
“I spoke to one of the police officers,” Castiel said, casting an eye over the property. “He said kitchen fire.”  
  
“Yeah, I got that too,” Sam said, flipping through his notes. “You get pictures of the mother when they were wheeling her out? I was told she probably accidentally started it. Further information pending, of course.” He gave a grim raise of his eyebrows, his mouth bunched to one side.  
  
“I got a few shots of the mother, but from a distance,” Castiel returned his full attention to Sam. “Did the boy say anything useful?”  
  
“Um, a few things,” Sam flipped his notebook shut. “But I have enough for a few hundred words even without his quotes. Shall we?”  
  
Castiel took a moment to cast a slow eye across the scene. It had calmed down considerably in the last forty-five minutes. Yet he still sensed the ozone-like air of anxiety, adrenaline and tightly lidded panic.  
  
From this angle, Castiel suddenly noted, one could see a vast field of corn swiftly reaching late-season height. Green and thick just behind the smoking house: another juxtaposition. Castiel held his camera up to his eye, took a few steps to the right, and snapped a series of shots.  
  
When he lowered his camera, he found Sam surveying the cornfield as well. He was rocking back on his heels, hands in his pockets, lips pursed in thought. He looked remarkably like a little boy, Castiel suddenly thought. It was the eyes, he decided a moment later.  
  
Then Sam turned toward Castiel, and he looked like himself again. That is, like a young man in his late twenties who’d just had his first real reporting assignment in nearly a year. Castiel thought of too-eager dogs again then shoved the entire subject to the back of his mind.  
  
“Ready?” Sam asked.  
  
“Yes. Thank you for waiting,” Castiel let his camera hang from his shoulder as he led them back to his car. Sam made a huff of laughter as he fell in step beside him.  
  
“Once, at an internship,” he said, “I got so much shit when I tried to rush the photographer along before she was ready. I’ve learned to let you guys do your thing.”  
  
“It’d be nice if more reporters shared your view,” Castiel said, and that made Sam grin harder and shake his head. Castiel got the distinct sense that he’d be laughing if their surroundings weren’t so somber.  
  
After they got back in the car, Sam immediately whipped out his notebook and flipped to his notes again. He reread them for the first three minutes of the drive back, pen tapping a rhythm on his knee.  
  
“What I don’t get,” he said apropos of nothing, “is how a tea kettle starts a fire.”  
  
“Was it a tea kettle then?” Castiel asked mildly. “The officer I talked to generalized it as a kitchen fire.”  
  
“Right, so get this,” Sam shifted in his seat. “Jacob—the son, the boy I was talking to—he mentioned that his mom barely cooks, only ever heats up water in a kettle for tea. And the fire started in the kitchen, they know that much. So beyond a short circuit or faulty wiring, the stove—the tea kettle—seems like the most likely culprit. But how long would a kettle have to be left unattended before it catches fire?”  
  
Castiel considered this carefully as he maneuvered around a bicyclist.  
  
“It depends on how hot the stove was,” he finally guessed. “And how much water was in the kettle.”  
  
“Mm,” Sam ran a hand through his hair and leaned back to stare out the window. “That’s a long time to forget about a kettle of water. Especially if boiling it is a routine thing.” He paused a moment. “Jacob mentioned his mom had been feeling sick lately. Maybe she fell asleep or passed out.”  
  
Castiel wasn’t sure that he had anything else to add to this line of thought, so he stayed quiet. But it was…interesting. He didn’t usually work with reporters who gave such consideration to the facts they were handed. It sounded like an investigator’s line of thinking, honestly.  
  
He turned to Sam suddenly. “You did undergrad at Stanford.”  
  
Sam didn’t respond immediately. He was craning his neck to watch a large industrial building in the distance.  
  
“What?” he turned around. Then immediately, “What’s that factory?”  
  
“The Singenta building,” Castiel ducked his head to check. “The fertilizer plant.”  
  
“Oh,” Sam turned to watch it again, then whipped back to Castiel. “Sorry, what did you ask?”  
  
Dogs again. This time, it was that ridiculous, long, flying hair that did it.  
  
“I…” Castiel blinked to sort his thoughts. “You went to undergrad at Stanford, didn’t you?”  
  
“Yes?” Sam drew the word out. “Did…Jo tell you?”  
  
Castiel wanted to simultaneously smack himself and curse out Charlie and Anna—and Jo too—for gossiping about Sam so much within his range of hearing.  
  
“In a sense,” he gritted out. “People don’t usually go to Stanford for its journalism program, that’s all.”  
  
“No, they don’t,” Sam agreed. “I went there for pre-law, initially.”  
  
“What changed?”  
  
“I joined the school newspaper in sophomore year and let it steal my soul, basically.” Sam shrugged. “I like writing and the adrenaline rush of the deadline, though I probably shouldn’t. And then there’s something about…about talking to people. Understanding their stories and knowing you have to do it justice. It’s terrifying in a way, but when you get it right, it’s pretty fantastic.” He looked over at Castel suddenly. “Sorry, I wax poetic when you let me.”  
  
“No, I understand what you’re saying,” Castiel slowed for an intersection, trying to identify the little nudge in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps he was getting sick.  
  
“What got you into photojournalism then?” Sam asked.  
  
“When I was six years old my parents gave me a disposable camera,” Castiel sent the car forward again. “I spent the entire day taking pictures of the back yard.”  
  
Sam’s laugh was low and rich.  
  
“What?” Castiel asked.  
  
“No, I just,” Sam shook his head. “Sorry, I’m imagining a miniature version of you running around taking pictures of flowers and stuff.”  
  
Castiel thought about this for a moment. “Is that funny?”  
  
“You have that super serious expression in my imagination, so yeah.”  
  
Castiel moved through a few more short intersections in contemplative silence before Sam blurted, “I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”  
  
“No,” Castiel said quickly. “No, it’s not. Anna and Jo always tell me I look too serious.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“I’ve been compared to the meme Grumpy Cat.”  
  
Sam coughed abruptly, pounding his fist against his chest. Castiel chanced several alarmed glanced in his direction as he pulled into the parking lot.  
  
“Are you all right?” he asked warily.  
  
“Yup,” Sam wheezed, nodding his head vigorously. “I just…yup.” Castiel pulled into a free spot and turned off the ignition. He leaned back in his seat and watched Sam get his breathing back under control.  
  
“If you’re done,” he suggested, “We’re on a very tight deadline.”  
  
“Yup,” Sam repeated again, and unlocked his seat belt. “Let’s go.”  
  
*****  
  
 **The New Eldritch Herald – Friday, July 12, 2013**  
  
 **Fire in Lucas Street home**  
By Sam Winchester – A kitchen fire in a local home caused several thousand dollars worth of damage on Thursday afternoon.  
Photos by Castiel Novak  
  
 **Fremont County Health Board…**  
 **…**  
 **…**  
  
 **To:** Zachariah Smith  
 **From:** Michael Alef  
 **Subject:** Winchester’s fire story  
  
Zachariah,  
  
I’d like to speak with you as soon as possible. I believe there’s been some kind of misunderstanding or miscommunication with your staff.  
  
Michael  
  
*****  
  
“That’s pretty cool.”  
  
“It’s a 300 word story, Dean.”  
  
“Front page though. Look, Sam Winchester. Right there. Photograph and everything.”  
  
“Yeah, I see it.”  
  
“Think I’ll cut it out and put it on the fridge.”  
  
“For God’s—“ Sam reached out to snatch at the newspaper. Dean jerked it out of reach with a shit-eating grin. “Fine,” Sam went back to toaster surveillance. “Whatever. I’m not making you toast.”  
  
“C’mon, Sammy, let me be proud of you.”  
  
“It’s nothing,” Sam threw up a hand as Dean folded the newspaper and set it back on the kitchen counter. “The only reason it’s on the front page is because it was a major enough story. And when it happened, I was the only one available to cover it.” The toast popped up and Sam grabbed the two slices and dropped them on a waiting plate. “I mean, you should have seen Zachariah’s face when I got back to the newsroom. I thought the guy was going to pop a vessel. I’m pretty sure poor Rufus got a major dressing down.”  
  
“Ach, Sam, a little sidestepping of the rules is normal,” Dean slapped Sam’s chest with the back of his hand. “I mean, when the Man’s in control of the game, you got to make up your own rules, right?”  
  
“But Zachariach—“  
  
“Okay, fuck Zachariah, he’s a douche canoe—“  
  
“Douche canoe?”  
  
“And maybe now Michael’ll give the go ahead for you to do some actual assignments.”  
  
Sam scraped margarine across his toast, unable to admit that that had been exactly what he’d been thinking.  
  
An hour later, as Sam clicked through the New Eldritch Herald website, he was still thinking about it. He imagined Michael and Raphael pulling Zachariah aside, saying to let the new kid do a few more stories that involved actual reporting, and weren’t just rewriting press releases.  
  
Because Sam was acutely aware of how lucky he was to have this job, he really was. But it didn’t stop him from feeling a simmering frustration that yesterday had been the first time he’d left the newsroom on assignment, the first time he’d interviewed someone who wasn’t Officer Mills or the media relations person for the local department of transportation. The first time his name had actually appeared in print, since short briefs in the print newspaper didn’t include reporters’ names.  
  
The first time he’d gotten a photographer.  
  
Sam finally clicked on the fire story, but not to read it. He always felt supremely uncomfortable reading his own published work.  
  
Instead, he was examining a short slide show of Castiel’s photos from the fire. The first in line was the one that had appeared in print. A firefighter outlined against the blaze, a spurt of water arched above his head, and at the top, a strip of pure blue sky. It was a striking photo.  
  
Sam scrolled through the three other photos in the slideshow. One showed the woman, Amy Pond, as she’d been wheeled to the ambulance. Castiel had been careful to avoid her face, so all one could make out was a figure on a wheeled gurney surrounded by paramedics. Sam dimly recalled pointing Castiel toward the scene, and allowed himself to feel a bloom of pleasure that he’d been of help.  
  
Then a photo of the cornfield and smoldering house, also one Sam recalled, and finally a picture of the entire scene from a distance. All the photos were neat, well-lit, and professional. Informative and engaging without being melodramatic.  
  
Sam greeted Garth as he came in and then looked back to his screen. He thought a moment, then typed in the website’s search bar,  _Castiel Novak_.  
  
Several pages of results came back, and Sam chose one at random; a story from a week and a half ago about a new winery, written by Balthazar. It included a much longer slide show of beautiful shots of the vineyards and winery. Sam lingered on each one, letting his eye follow the shapes and colors of the subjects, trying to pick out what made Castiel’s style.  
  
He went back to the search results, picked a new story, and did it again.  
  
He was squinting at a picture of a vast soybean field affected by last summer’s drought when the meeting room opened to release the editors from their morning meeting. Sam quickly craned his neck and caught sight of a head of dark hair and a vivid blue tie. He was already half rising in his seat, when Rufus called out for attention. Sam sank back into his seat, but he kept the soybean photo open on his desktop.  
  
“Researching?” Ruby asked mildly under Rufus’ announcements.  
  
Sam shrugged. “Something like that.”  
  
“Sam?” Sam straightened and looked up at Rufus. For another split second he imagined being handed a full-fledged story, complete with a compelling narrative, well-spoken sources—  
  
“Got two briefs for you,” Rufus barely looked Sam in the eye as he handed over the papers. Sam accepted them with a tiny wooden smile, and had to avoid the pitying look Ruby shot in his direction.  
  
*****  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Charlie Bradbury  
 **Subject** : Indents!  
  
So,  
  
Formatting is made much more time consuming than needed when you guys submit your stories without indents. In case anyone forgot: 12 pt font, Times New Roman, double spaced,  ** _new paragraphs are not spaced apart, they are indented. Once. Press the tab key. ONCE._**  
  
Thanks Bitches!  **(** **✿** **◉** **‿** **◉** **)**  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Castiel Novak  
 **Subject:** Re: Indents!  
  
Charlie,  
  
We understand and accept your formatting request.  
But we are not your bitches.  
  
Castiel Novak  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Charlie Bradbury  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: Indents!  
  
sez you.   
  
Charlie  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Bela Talbot  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Indents!  
  
Actually, I think this newsroom could do with more bitches overall.  
  
Bela  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Anna Milton  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Re: Indents!  
  
Cas, it’s Charlie’s world and we’re all just living in it.  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Michael Alef  
 **Subject:** Bulletin privileges  
  
I would like to remind all staff members that the Bulletin is to be used for work-related messages only. Please use personal email accounts or text messages for any other kind of communication.  
  
Michael Alef  
Editor-in-Chief  
  
  
 **To:** Charlie Bradbury  
 **Cc:** Castiel Novak; Bela Talbot  
 **From:** Anna Milton  
 **Subject:** Other kind of communication  
  
Mikey cries his way thru sex pass it on.  
  
  
 **To:** Anna Milton  
 **Cc:** Castiel Novak; Bela Talbot  
 **From:** Charlie Bradbury  
 **Subject:** Re: Other kind of communication  
  
OHHHHH!!  
  
  
 **To:** Anna Milton  
 **Cc:** Castiel Novak; Charlie Bradbury  
 **From:** Bela Talbot  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: Other kind of communication  
  
If this were Facebook, I’d like that.  
  
Bela  
  
  
 **To:** Charlie Bradbury  
 **Cc:** Anna Milton; Bela Talbot  
 **From:** Castiel Novak  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Other kind of communication  
  
Why am I copied on this email?   
  
Castiel Novak  
  
  
 **To:** Castiel Novak  
 **Cc:** Charlie Bradbury; Bela Talbot  
 **From:** Anna Milton  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Re: Other kind of communication

*****  
  
Sam had to assume that Michael and Raphael had not told Zachariah to give Sam a break at all. In fact, he had to assume that they’d given him a dressing down too, because the next few days were an absolute flood of petty news briefs and menial assignments. Sam honestly would not have guessed that one small town newspaper had so many little things to talk about, but he supposed he should have known better.  
  
Rufus had definitely become more subdued in his dealings with him, as well. Sam tried to smile apologetically at him a lot and otherwise broadcast that he was sorry he’d gotten the man in trouble. Only he really shouldn’t have to apologize, because under normal circumstances, no one would be getting in trouble. No matter how Sam approached it, he reached the same conclusion: this wasn’t reasonable. It wasn’t normal. It felt downright petty.  
  
Perhaps out of some guilt, Ruby, Victor and Garth insisted on Sam joining them at the bar at the end of his third week. Sam accepted, and he could at least admit that he’d had a good time with them. He and Ruby had even lingered long after Victor and Garth had gone home, discussing all manner of things that had nothing to do with New Eldritch and its news. And that, Sam had to admit, had been a relief.  
  
The second positive outcome in all this was that Sam was getting to be good friends with Officer Mills.  
  
The sudden influx of work meant that Sam didn’t find time to wander over to Castiel’s end of the newsroom until the Wednesday after the fire assignment.  
  
He did so during lunch break, since he otherwise had nothing to do for his forty-five minutes. Dean had the evening shift on Wednesdays, which meant he’d not be coming in for another two hours. Jo had already bowed out in favor of other plans. And while Sam wouldn’t have minded sharing a sandwich with Bobby, he’d already let Sam know that he’d be busy with a meeting with the heads of circulation and advertising.  
  
So when the daily news desk had emptied out, Sam sent his latest assignment off to the copy desk and wandered over to the small photojournalism department.  
  
He slowed at a chorus of voices. When he rounded the corner, he found Jo, Anna and another redheaded girl wearing a Harry Potter t-shirt that he recognized as Charlie, the Webmaster. They looked as if they were about to head out to lunch, gathering purses and looking for sunglasses.  
  
He spotted Castiel a moment later, hunched at a computer and absently fingering his blue tie.  
  
After a moment’s hesitation, Sam pretended to be fussing with the printers. He waited until the three women had passed Pam’s empty desk before sidling over to where Castiel sat.  
  
And the man  _did_ look like Grumpy Cat as he stared at his screen in deep concentration. The corner of Sam’s mouth twitched despite himself.  
  
“Hey,” he greeted, and Castiel jerked his head up, blinking owlishly.  
  
“Hello, Sam,” he said. A beat of awkward silence. “Did you need something?”  
  
“No, nothing like that. I uh, I just wanted to say I really like those photos you took.” Sam grinned in a way he hoped was not creepy. “You’ve got some real talent.”  
  
(Sam categorically refused to admit he’d been stalking Castiel’s work during his five-minute breaks. And in the mornings when he should have been checking email. And in the evenings while sitting on Dean’s couch. Categorically. Refused.)  
  
Castiel stared at him, and Sam felt his ears start to warm. “From the fire?” he prompted.  
  
“Oh,” Castiel’s face cleared. “Yes, thank you.” He seemed to think for a moment before adding, “Your story was well written.”  
  
Sam knew his story was so bare bones, it wasn’t better or worse than what any other reporter would have produced. But he nodded nevertheless and thanked him.  
  
“So,” Sam stuck his hands in his pockets. “Did you have plans for lunch?”  
  
“Lunch,” Castiel repeated, as if the word had foreign meaning. Sam yanked one hand from his pockets and ran it through his hair.  
  
“I usually eat lunch with my brother and Bobby down at the printing press, and I’d totally invite you there, but I don’t know if you brought lunch today, so we could go out somewhere. If you know anywhere.” Sam cleared his throat. “I’ve heard the sandwich shop down the street is good.”  
  
He was rambling.  
  
Castiel’s face looked slightly pale, or perhaps it was the light, as he shook his head.  
  
“I’m sorry, I need to finish these photos within the hour,” he said.  
  
“Right,” Sam nodded. “No problem. Sorry to bother you.” Castiel was still watching him with a slight tilt to his head and an unreadable expression as Sam took a few steps back. “See you later then?”  
  
“Yes,” Castiel nodded, and in a sudden rush added, “We should try working together again sometime.” His voice sounded genuine, so that helped ease the way Sam’s entire face was burning.  
  
Sam paused, then grinned tentatively.  
  
“I’d like that.”  
  
And when Sam turned to walk away, he was so busy mentally berating himself that he didn’t see the way Castiel angrily scrubbed at his face, or the empty screen sitting before him.  
  
As it was, Sam had no inclination to sit in the all but empty newsroom knowing Castiel was at the other end. So he grabbed a book and his lunch and headed down to the printing press anyway.  
  
He was settling down with a sandwich in one hand and his book in another, when sudden movement at the break room’s window made him jerk his head up. He lowered his sandwich as a man in a neatly tailored suit and a laptop under one arm opened the door slightly.  
  
“Oh,” the man said after a brief moment. “This isn’t the place then.” He didn’t sound too perturbed by this, his English accent coming out in a lazy drawl. Sam took a moment to wonder what yet another Englishman was doing in the middle of Kansas.  
  
Sam put his sandwich down completely. “Can I help you get somewhere?” he asked.  
  
The expression the man gave him was downright indulgent.  
  
“The new newsroom boy, aren’t you?” the man asked. “The Ken doll’s brother. Name like the gun.”  
  
“Sam Winchester?” Sam offered.  _Ken doll?_  
  
“That’s the one,” the man entered the room completely, letting the door swing shut behind him. “Let me promise you, Sam, that I know how to find my way around this building. No, I merely mean the confusion that has arisen thanks to some maintenance taking place in the meeting room we usually occupy.”  
  
“Oh, the meeting Bobby’s at?” Sam asked after a moment. “With the head of circulation.”  
  
“Yes, I suppose that one,” the man glanced around the room like someone who’d just stepped into the dingier part of town. Sam experienced the first surges of mild dislike. The Ken doll comment hadn’t helped. “My email only said “break room,” so I had to make my guess as to which one Lilith meant.” His eyes landed on Sam again. “The name’s Crowley, by the way. King of Hell.”  
  
“King of Hell,” Sam repeated, trying to smile. He couldn’t quite tell if it was a joke.  
  
“A title lovingly bestowed by my staff,” Crowley explained. “I’m head of advertising. The side of this newspaper business that Michael would prefer to forget exists.”  
  
Sam tilted his head. “Is Michael like that one editor-in-chief at the Chicago Tribune? The one who made the reporters and advertising staff take separate elevators?”  
  
Crowley unexpectedly threw his head back for a full-throated laugh.  
  
“I’m certain,” he said, “that if Michael had the funds for two whole elevators, he’d do so in a heartbeat.”  
  
His watch beeped at him, and he glanced down.  
  
“Oh dear, they’ll have started by now,” he said in the most unconcerned voice possible. “If you’ll excuse me.” He executed an actual small bow and opened the door. “By the way,” he glanced back at the last second, “You’ll have to let me know at some point how old Lucian is holding up.” With that, he strode from the room while whistling something that sounded suspiciously like “Sympathy For The Devil.”  
  
“What?” Sam blurted, but Crowley was already gone. Sam dropped his book and lurched toward the door. When he peered into the printing press, it was as if Crowley had disappeared into thin air. Sam repressed a sudden shiver and slowly shut the door again.  
  
He stood in the break room feeling like a deer caught in the headlights. Then he swiftly gathered back up his sandwich and book and all but sprinted back to the newsroom.  
  
He needed to find out how on earth Crowley knew his old editor.


	4. Chapter 4

 

> _“We can't quite decide if the world is growing worse, or if the reporters are just working harder.”_  
>  _\- The Houghton Line, November 1965_

 

 **The New Eldritch Herald – Friday, July 19, 2013**  
  
 **Woman claims first-degree murder**  
By Victor Henriksen, Ruby Sangre – A local woman turned herself in to authorities last night, claiming to have shot and stabbed her husband. Police are currently investigating.  
  
 **Soldiers’ mass execution reported in Syria**  
By The Associated Press – Islamist extremists in Syria’s insurgency killed 150 soldiers in a battle for control of an Aleppo suburb this week.  
  
 **New report shows massive food deserts in Kansas**  
By Becky Rosen – The study from the University of Kansas estimates that one in seven Kansas children do not have adequate nutrition.  
  
 **West Nile Virus outbreak in central Kansas**  
By Rufus Turner – Twenty confirmed cases in the past month may indicate a resurgence of the deadly virus.  
  
 **OPINION: The end is near**  
By Gabe Lokey – Is it just me, or is this sounding like the apocalypse?  
  
 *****  
  
Castiel wondered if he could slip in a request for another computer at the photography desk. If nothing else, another few chairs to accommodate the crowds that seemed to gather there.  
  
Today it was Jo, Anna and Charlie, as well as Kevin from the copy desk. Castiel liked Kevin as a general rule, but he also wished the boy could have found somewhere else to show everyone…  
  
Castiel glanced over to the second computer and found the Kansas City Star’s website up on the screen.  
  
“They just added them this week,” Kevin was explaining, clicking on a section that read “Multimedia.”  
  
“Podcasts,” Anna said, sounding disgusted in that way that meant she wished she’d thought of it first. “They’re making regular _podcasts_  now? They think they’re the New York Times?”  
  
“I hacked into their statistics,” Charlie said gloomily. “Total unique hits went up about 200 percent.”  
  
“Guys, it’s just because it’s new,” Jo said waving a hand. “People will get used to them and hits will drift back to normal.”  
  
“Yeah,” Kevin said, not sounding convinced. “But I we're close enough to the city that I bet we lose some readers to them thanks to this. I mean, what do we have as far as multimedia?”  
  
Everyone reflected on this with a general air of malaise.  
  
“Our photos are great,” Jo finally spoke up with a touch of defensiveness. She slapped Castiel’s shoulder, startling him. “We have beautiful slideshows.”  
  
“Sure,” Anna ran one hand through her hair, the other on her hip. “But I’ve told this to Michael and Raphael again and again. It’s time to start branching into more than the traditional text with photos.”  
  
Charlie snorted. “Sounds like trying to convince the Pope that gay marriage is A-Okay.”  
  
Castiel tuned out at that point, re-reading the photography request Bela had sent them a few minutes ago. She wanted someone to accompany her on her interview with an elderberry grower, the only one in the state. Castiel considered taking the assignment himself. He’d be willing to put up with Bela if it meant agricultural photography, which was nearly as good as wildlife photography.  
  
“Cas!”  
  
“What?” Castiel looked up at Anna with irritation then followed her eyes to his other side. “Oh.” He straightened. “Hello, Victor.”  
  
“Hey,” Victor glanced at the group crowded around what was supposed to be Jo’s computer, then looked back to Castiel. “I have a quick question. You know that fire story from about two weeks ago? They’ve finally released a full report on what caused it and I’m putting together a follow-up. Sam’s already left, so could I pick your brain for a few things?“  
  
“You’re writing the follow-up?” Castiel asked despite himself.  
  
“Yeah,” Victor nodded, his eyebrows ticking upwards.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Castiel shook his head briefly. “Please contin—but wouldn’t they have Sam do that? Since he wrote the initial story?”  
  
“Uh, yeah, actually, that’s Zachariah’s standard policy,” Victor shrugged, and his hand came up to rub the back of his neck. “I sort of wish they’d have let Sam do this. I never like jumping into half-baked stories.”  
  
“Dude, it’s not your fault,” Charlie spoke up suddenly, and only then did Castiel realize that it had been very quiet behind him. “The editors are screwing the guy over.”  
  
Victor looked supremely uncomfortable at this point so Castiel took mercy on him by grabbing at his notebook and flipping to his notes from the fire. “I’m sorry, Victor, what did you need to know?”  
  
Victor asked his handful of basic questions with obvious relief—a few key sources, how he could reach them, and various details about the scene.  
  
“Out of curiosity,” Castiel said as Victor copied everything into his own notebook. “What did they pin down as the cause of the fire?”  
  
“Um, a tea kettle left on high for nearly five hours,” Victor said distractedly as he scrawled in his notebook. “Pond’s nap apparently went on longer than she’d expected and the stove finally caught fire. It wasn’t until her son came home from a friend’s house that anyone called 911.”  
  
Castiel looked back to his screen, fingers caged over his mouth so no one could see him smiling ever so slightly.  
  
Victor flipped his notebook shut, crossed his arms and leaned forward. His voice came out in a conspiratorial hush.  
  
“So you guys have noticed that too? That they’re sort of treating Sam like shit?”  
  
“I think everyone’s noticed,” Jo said, and Castiel suddenly found his chair surrounded by what felt like half the newsroom. “What have you seen?”  
  
“I dunno. His first day, Zachariah pretty much yanked a story out of his hands,” Victor said around a sigh. “A pretty harmless one too. Handed it over to me and gave him a bunch of briefs.”  
  
“What I don’t get is, why hire a Northwestern graduate and then not let him write any real stories?” Kevin asked from his chair. “I’ve seen the guy’s work. He knows his stuff. Not even Naomi finds a lot to correct as far as grammar and sentence structure goes.”  
  
“You know what it is,” Anna said. “They all decided from the get go not to trust him because of that Rodriguez mess.”  
  
“’They’ meaning you too,” Charlie said, eyebrows disappearing into her bangs. “You weren’t too eager to trust Sam either."  
  
Anna’s face became somewhat pinched. Castiel felt a small drop in the pit of his stomach.  
  
“I had doubts, sure,” Anna said, arms coming up to cross across her chest. “Anyone would. But that doesn’t mean I want Michael to waste this kid’s talent on police reports and road closures.”  
  
“Well then you should say something,” Jo said. “You and Castiel both. Because they’re not going to listen to a bunch of staff members.”  
  
“You think the social media editor has any more credence?” Anna asked, voice lowering to a hiss. “Most of the Garrison doesn’t consider my work actual journalism. And I’m sorry, Castiel, but photography has the same issues.”  
  
There followed a long and awkward silence, broken by a new voice that made everyone jump slightly.  
  
“Is there a meeting the rest of us were not informed about?”  
  
Castiel looked up in time to find Raphael framed between Victor and Jo’s standing figures. He took a moment to appreciate that the image would make a great shot. Especially with the way the managing editor’s navy blue pantsuit matched the blue on Jo’s shirt.  
  
“I had a few questions about a story,” Victor waved his notebook as if to deflect the cool gaze Raphael was giving them. Then she sighed once, like a teacher dealing with troublesome students, and focused on Charlie.  
  
“I had a few questions about the freshest batch of stories you posted,” she said. “The formatting looks off.”  
  
“Oh!” Charlie wriggled out from between Anna’s and Kevin’s chairs. “Sure, I’ll look at that now.”  
  
“It’d be helpful if you would stay at your desk more often,” Raphael added. “I’m not a fan of scavenger hunts.” Castiel all but felt Kevin and Anna shrink down.  
  
The small crowd dispersed quite quickly after that, Victor mumbling final thanks at Castiel. Jo sank into the seat Kevin had just vacated, staring at the screen that still showed the Kansas City Star’s new podcasts.  
  
“Sometimes,” she said in a low voice. “I get tempted to quit.”  
  
Castiel shifted in his seat.  
  
“Is it so bad here?” he asked.  
  
Jo sighed, a massive gust. “Nooo,” she drew the word out. “I’d miss all you guys anyway.”  
  
They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, Castiel’s mind finally wandering back to Bela’s photo request.  
  
“You know what?” Jo suddenly said, and Castiel tilted his gaze away from his screen again. He found Jo scrutinizing the same webpage. “I’m going to learn how to do audio and video,” she said. “They have programs that make it easy, don’t they?”  
  
“I suppose so,” Castiel said carefully. “The equipment may be expensive.”  
  
“I don’t even care,” Jo straightened. “I’m going to do it. Anna and Charlie will help me. Kevin too, he owes me a few favors.”  
  
Castiel rubbed at his chin, then decided to let it go. He’d learned a long time ago not to get in Jo’s way when she had a goal.  
  
Since it was a Friday afternoon, Jo packed up to head home by four o’clock. She had a strange light in her eyes, and her jaw was firmly fixed when she said goodbye. Castiel told her to have a good weekend, but he didn’t think she heard him.  
  
*****  
  
 **To:** Anna Milton  
 **Cc:** Kevin Tran, Charlie Bradbury  
 **Subject:** You guys busy?  
  
Because I have an idea for a project.  
  
Jo  
  
*****  
  
The next day, a glorious Saturday, found Castiel in his car speeding toward the countryside.  
  
He’d already spent two hours that morning at the Roadhouse snapping pictures of the breakfast crowd. Next to wildlife, people were by far Castiel’s favorite subjects. The Roadhouse presented a perfect cross section of life in New Eldritch: farmers coming into town for one reason or another, town families with small children and young parents, students from both the college and the high school searching for a greasy breakfast to banish their hangovers. Castiel came in nearly every week, and always found something different in his people watching.  
  
Ellen treated this practice with good humor and kept Castiel fueled with cups of black coffee. When Castiel had first started coming in for photos, he’d had a guilty suspicion that Ellen only permitted it because he was her daughter’s superior at work.  
  
“Kid, you think I’d let you throw your bureaucratic weight around like that?” Ellen had asked with only mild disgust when the subject had finally come up. “I let you take photos because everyone here’s used to Jo doing the same thing her whole life. Good God, when she wasn’t shooting guns she was shooting photos.” Ellen had topped off Castiel’s cup with a shake of her head and the sun had landed so perfectly on her life-roughened skin that Castiel hadn’t been able to resist lifting his camera for a shot.  
  
After that, Castiel made a habit of presenting Ellen with his best pictures. She hung them up around the Roadhouse and always said, “You’ve got talent there, Castiel. Real talent.”  
  
Now, with the Roadhouse behind him and his head buzzing with a little too much coffee, Castiel was aiming for a stretch of empty land he’d passed once or twice on his way to various assignments. It stood on the very northern edge of town. If someone had had a mind, they could easily have planted a few acres of row crop there.  
  
But Castiel had to assume that the landowner was either gone from the area or simply not inclined toward farming, because the land looked as if it had lay fallow for decades. Which meant several acres of native grasses and excellent chances of wildlife.  
  
Castiel slowed as he neared the property, keeping an eye on his rearview mirror for the cars that came whipping down these empty country roads. He eventually found a small clearing and bumped his car off the road and onto the grass. He killed the engine and prepared his equipment in the relative silence; two cameras, a pack of different lenses, extra batteries and SD cards and a tripod. All scientifically arranged in several packs that could be easily thrown on and off the shoulder.  
  
When Castiel stepped out of the car, the sky was an impossible blue above him, he could hear a bluejay somewhere in near distance, and overall, Castiel’s mood couldn’t get much better.  
  
The next few hours passed in a pleasant blur of sunlit landscapes, distant birdcalls and warm, summer breezes. Castiel filled an SD card and was just popping in a second when something distantly rattled the underbrush in a large copse of trees to his left.  
  
Castiel froze, thinking it might be a deer. The sounds were faint but getting louder, and Castiel dropped to a crouch, lens trained toward the copse.  
  
After a moment, a frown began to drift across his face. Deer were much quieter than whatever was crashing through the brush. Couldn’t be a mountain lion, those were quieter still. Did bear show up around here? Castiel couldn’t recall.  
  
He caught a snatch of movement. A moose?  
  
There was a split second between the whatever-it-was stumbling out of the brush and Castiel deciding he’d better take a picture of it, just in case it  _was_ a moose and decided to trample him a moment later.  
  
His shutter went off.  
  
“The hell?”  
  
Castiel lowered his camera and shot to his feet. Because moose did not wear plaid, or shout “the hell”, or stare at him with their mouths hanging slightly open. Though the height was probably about right.  
  
“Cas?” Sam blinked.  
  
For the first time in his life, Castiel wished he wasn’t holding a camera.  
  
*****  
  
Looking at the whole thing objectively, Sam supposed that it should be hilarious. Dean, he was sure, would be on the ground by now crying with laughter.  
  
But Dean wasn’t here. Instead it was Sam feeling like he’d just tripped into a practical joke and Castiel standing a few yards away with his face turning a fire-engine red.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Castiel said, and his voice sounded reed-thin. He began hastily stuffing his camera (if Sam wasn’t mistaken, the camera he’d just used to snap a picture of Sam tripping out of the trees) into a pack hanging at his side. “I didn’t realize you lived—I should have asked permission.”  
  
“What?” Sam asked, aware of the lag between his brain and rapidly unfolding events. Castiel snapped his pack shut and took a few steps to the side, eyes almost comically wide.  
  
“I don’t usually trespass,” he said quickly. “I assumed no one came out here. I shouldn’t have been so cavalier, forgive me.”  
  
“Hang on,” Sam took a step forward, arm outstretched. Castiel paused. “You’re just taking pictures, right?” Castiel nodded slowly. “Then I don’t see the issue,” Sam let his arm fall. “It’s not even my land, it’s Dean’s. My brother.”  
  
“Dean Winchester?” Castiel lost the scared rabbit look slightly. “From the printing press. This is his property?”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam nodded. “You’re right, no one comes down here. So honestly, you’re fine.”  
  
“Oh,” Castiel looked around at the trees and grasses briefly, as if assessing it again with fresh eyes. Then, “I still shouldn’t have been so brazen. I’ll leave immediately.”  
  
“Wait,” Sam said, perhaps a touch too loudly. “I promise Dean doesn’t care.” Castiel looked like he was about to apologize again, so Sam added. “Here, how about you come up to the house with me and you can ask for his permission yourself. If that’ll make you feel better.”  
  
Castiel hesitated, fingering one of the myriad straps looped around his shoulders.  
  
“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he said slowly.  
  
“You’re not,” Sam promised. “C’mon, where are you parked?” Castiel pointed to the east. “Do you want to hang out here and take a few more shots?” Sam asked.  
  
“No,” Castiel shook his head. His voice sounded slightly firmer. “I’ll ask Dean’s permission first.”  
  
Sam let out a small huff of laughter. “Lead the way then.”  
  
They began walking in silence, save for their boots crushing dried grasses and Castiel’s packs bumping against one another. Sam concentrated on keeping his strides shorter.  
  
“Do you take walks out here often?” Castiel finally ventured.  
  
“A little,” Sam stuck his hands in his pockets, kicking at a stray stone. “Haven’t been this far out yet. Thought I’d check it out.”  
  
He didn’t mention that Dean had threatened to make Sam “fix the roofing if you don’t stop sitting around the house looking like somebody’s beaten you, Jesus Christ.”  
  
“You sound like Bobby,” Sam had replied, all petulant little brother. Then he’d yanked on his hiking boots for a good long ramble on the property. He’d hoped that the fresh air would clear out some of the Crowley-related thoughts cycling through his head like a hamster on a squeaky wheel.  
  
And instead he’d found a newspaper photographer. But if anything, Sam was a flexible guy.  
  
“You live here then?” Castiel asked.  
  
“Yeah, I sleep on Dean’s couch until I get around to finding my own place,” Sam cracked a self-deprecating grin. “Classy, I know.”  
  
Sam heard a quiet huff beside him and glanced down to realize that Castiel had laughed.  
  
“So get any good shots?” Sam continued, feeling a hopeful push in his chest.  
  
“A few,” Castiel nodded, straightening. “I caught a pheasant at close quarters. A female, probably with a brood nearby.” It was as if a switch had flicked. His voice became firmer and more animated, his face brighter. “I managed to try two different lenses on it, so I hope one of them got me what I wanted.”  
  
Sam fell into easy silence as Castiel took over the conversation, describing the various shots he’d taken and the methods he’d used. Sam had only ever dabbled in photography, and he listened to terms like ISO and aperture with a mix of confusion and curiosity.  
  
Ten minutes later, after having to turn around once, Castiel pulled into the gravel driveway that led to Dean’s—and temporarily—Sam’s house.  
  
It was a nice, old ranch-style building. The heating and cooling system was iffy sometimes, and Sam had told Dean more than once that he really needed to change the tiling in the kitchen. But Sam could tell Dean had fallen in love with the place. Sam easily imagined a Dean a few years younger than he was now, looking at a house that was just a little too old, a property that neither wanted nor needed to be tamed, and deciding it fit him. Honestly, the thought of Dean owning a house was almost Twilight Zone worthy, but Sam supposed having a steady income helped.  
  
“It’s beautiful,” Castiel said beside him as he killed the engine. Sam glanced over.  
  
“Yeah?” he asked.  
  
“The brick,” Castiel pointed. “It’s aged wonderfully. The color is very appealing, especially in a sunset, I’ll bet.”  
  
“Stick around, you can photograph it all you want,” Sam swung open the door. He led Castiel around to the screen door that led into the kitchen, reaching up to slide it open.  
  
“Hey Dean!” he called out.  
  
“What?” Dean’s voice carried from around the corner of the house after a moment.  
  
“Oh,” Sam leaned back, letting the screen door shut. “He must be in the side yard.”  
  
And indeed, when Sam led them around the corner of the house, they found Dean in a ratty t-shirt and work gloves, entangled in the honeysuckle bush that had taken over the eastern side of the house.  
  
Sam heard a small click behind him, and ignored it with a bubble of amusement.  
  
“Dean,” he repeated, picking his way around various garden tools and branches of honeysuckle. “Get your head out of there.”  
  
“God’s sake, Sam, what you want?“ Dean stumbled away from the honeysuckle. His face cleared when he spotted Castiel.  
  
“So, Castiel, this is my brother Dean,” Sam gestured. “Dean, this is Castiel Novak, from the newsroom.”  
  
“Yeah, we’ve talked a little,” Dean wiped the sweat from his forehead with a forearm, then peeled off a glove and held out his hand. Castiel accepted it, his expression one of stiff politeness again. “Don’t think I got the memo that you’d be dropping by.” Dean shot a glance at Sam.  
  
“Actually, Castiel was—“  
  
“Sam caught me trespassing on your property,” Castiel cut in, his back ramrod straight. “I came here to apologize. And to ask if I’d be allowed to photograph on it at a later date. Though if you’d prefer I didn’t, I’d understand.”  
  
Dean’s face flickered through a few different emotions.  
  
“Well,” he finally ran a hand through his hair, “I guess someone ought to use that land productively.” Castiel stared, brow still furrowed. “That means it’s all right,” Dean clarified.  
  
“Oh,” Castiel’s brow cleared. “Thank you.”  
  
Dean glanced to Sam again, his expression asking amusedly,  _Is this guy for real?_  
  
 _Give him a chance_ , Sam silently replied. Alternate interpretation:  _Don’t be a dick._  
  
“You want to come in for a drink? Something to eat?” Sam asked Castiel as Dean shook his head ever so slightly and peeled off his other glove.  
  
“I should probably be getting back home…” Castiel started.  
  
“Nah, come on,” Dean dropped the glove in the grass and began striding toward the screen door. “We never get visitors out here.” Castiel shot a glance at Sam, then adjusted the camera hanging from his shoulder and followed.  
  
“You go shower,” Sam shoved Dean down the hall as soon as they entered the house. “Or get on some clean clothes. You smell like a barn.”  
  
“Fuck off, bitch,” Dean replied without any real heat.  
  
“Jerk.”  
  
“I’m going to stop buying your damn vegetables, you keep up the attitude,” Dean’s voice drifted from down the hall, before his bedroom door shut.  
  
Sam looked around to find Castiel still standing in the middle of the kitchen, watching him with his head tilted. Sam cleared his throat.  
  
“Can I get you anything? We have beer. Soda.”  
  
“Water is fine,” Castiel had turned his attention to the pitted table, the faded countertops and cabinets, the kitchen tile that needed to be replaced.  
  
“It’s an old house,” Sam explained as he filled a glass at the tap. “And Dean’s kind of the quintessential bachelor. So, it’s not that nice.”  
  
“It feels like you two,” Castiel’s voice came from behind him. Sam squinted down at the cup filling with water, trying to puzzle out whether that had been an insult or compliment. But Castiel’s voice hadn’t had any malice in it, and he’d seemed pretty excited about the brick, so Sam decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.  
  
“Thanks,” he turned back around and handed the glass over to Castiel. Castiel accepted it and took a careful sip, eyes still roving over the kitchen as if he were categorizing every detail.  
  
“When was it built?” he asked.  
  
“1960s. Or that’s what the realtor told Dean. You can tell once you look at the heating and cooling system.” He hesitated. “You want to see the rest of the place?”  
  
“Yes,” Castiel said slowly, nodding his head once. “Yes, I would.”  
  
It was neither a large nor, as Sam had already said, a particularly nice house. So he felt a bit ridiculous showing Castiel the shabby living room and damp basement and small gym that should technically have been a guest bedroom. But Castiel kept up an air of intense interest, his camera shutter clicking every so often. What he was taking pictures of, Sam couldn’t imagine, but it didn’t feel proper to ask.  
  
Dean rejoined them in the living room, wet hair sticking up in spikes.  
  
“Hey,” he said, rubbing at his ear with a knuckle. “Giving the grand tour?”  
  
“It’s a lovely house,” Castiel said. His demeanor had become more confident again. Sam decided he liked this version better than the scared rabbit he’d seen on the property.  
  
“It’s an insurance nightmare, but thanks.” Dean gave the easy, freckled smile that always endeared people to him. Sam remembered him using it as a kid to squeeze out of tight situations, later on to make girls look at him twice. Sam always envied it in a quiet way, because Dean was the charmer. Sam stood in the background and tried not to be so tall.  
  
“Hey, it’s getting on three o’clock,” Dean was saying. “We do an early supper on Saturdays. Want to stick around?” Castiel rolled in his lips, looking around the house again. Sam could all but see him framing shots in his head.  
  
“You didn’t have dinner plans, did you?” Sam asked.  
  
“No,” Castiel said distantly, squinting at the fireplace. “Honestly, I planned to heat up leftovers for dinner.”  
  
“That’s that then,” Dean said, looking genuinely pleased.  
  
Five minutes later, Sam and Dean had repeatedly assured Castiel that no, he didn’t need to help in the kitchen, and yes he could take pictures of whatever he wanted in the house.  
  
“Though you might want to avoid Dean’s room,” Sam added. “He’s got his own ecosystem growing in there.” He ducked his head just as Dean’s hand came swinging toward it. Castiel watched them with something like a smile flickering at his mouth and excused himself to go back out to the driveway.  
  
“He wants to take pictures of the bricks,” Sam commented absently, watching Castiel angle himself in the yard before snapping away. He then looked away, just in case Castiel caught him creeping.  
  
He met Dean’s glance and found far too smug an expression there for his liking.  
  
“What?” he asked.  
  
“Nothing,” Dean said innocently as he filled a pot with water at the tap. He ignored the side eye Sam gave him.  
  
Sam spent another few minutes loitering at the sink and pulled out a cutting board and knife when Dean asked him if he could manage to look pensive while also chopping onions.  
  
Castiel came back in right as Dean was putting the finishing touches on the chicken stir-fry he’d whipped together from that week’s leftovers. His hair was wind-swept above a slightly reddened face.  
  
“You can tell the architecture came from a different era,” he informed them.  
  
“Yeah?” Dean dug his spatula through the stir-fry. “You into architecture?”  
  
“An amateur interest,” Castiel moved to the glass of water he’d left on the counter and took a deep gulp. “I considered minoring in it.”  
  
“Where’d you study?” Sam asked curiously, pulling out three sets of plates and silverware.  
  
“Illinois State University,” Castiel said. “Their journalism program certainly isn’t Northwestern, but…” he shrugged.  
  
Sam mirrored the shrug, hiding behind his hair as he set the plates out. “I’ve met plenty of great journalists who were completely self-taught.”  
  
“All right guys,” Dean gave the pan one last shake. “Grub’s up.”  
  
Sam almost couldn’t believe how easily the three of them found things to discuss as they worked their way through Dean’s meal. They moved from discussions of the house to home repair to television to politics at the New Eldritch Herald. Sam mostly kept his mouth mostly closed for that one.  
  
They’d spent nearly an hour chatting over dirty plates and cups of coffee when Castiel suddenly looked at the sunlight deepening into late afternoon with a small sound of surprise.  
  
“What time is it?” he asked, hands falling from where they’d been wrapped around his coffee mug.  
  
“Ah, almost four,” Sam checked his watch.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Castiel stood. “I have an appointment with a client at four thirty.” He hesitated, looking around the kitchen. “I could stay and help with the dishes.”  
  
“We’ll get around to it,” Sam waved a hand. “You probably need the money.”  
  
Castiel smiled slightly. “No one gets into photojournalism for the paycheck,” he said, and Sam barked a loud laugh.  
  
“So do we get to see the pictures you took today?” Dean asked, after giving Sam an indulgently amused look with a touch of something else in the corners.  
  
Castiel fingered his camera strap.  
  
“I prefer to look over them myself first,” he said slowly.  
  
“Tell you what then,” Dean pointed to Castiel. “You join us for lunch sometime and show up what you got today.”  
  
“Think of it as payment for your trespassing,” Sam added. Castiel nodded eagerly. He shook hands with both the Winchesters, thanked them several times, then affirmed at the last minute he could come in again at some point to capture the house’s interior.  
  
“He’s a nerdy little dude,” Dean said as they watched him pull away from the front door. “A nerdy little dude with a camera.”  
  
“But he’s okay.”  
  
“Sure he’s okay,” Dean ambled back into the house. “Jo and Ellen like him. And he knows how to handle a camera, that’s for damn sure.”  
  
“He does,” Sam said distantly, still standing at the door. He turned around a moment later to find Dean giving him that look again.  
  
“What?” he asked, immediately wrinkling his nose.  
  
“Nothing,” Dean turned to gather the dirty dishes.  
  
“No, you’ve been looking at me funny all day. What is it?”  
  
“It’s just good to see you cheerful for once,” Dean called over his shoulder.  
  
Sam rolled on the balls of his feet and went into the kitchen to lean against the countertop.  
  
“I haven’t been that bad,” he said after a long moment of watching Dean fill the pan with water to soak.  
  
“Not bad enough that most people would notice it,” Dean shrugged. The,  _but I’m not most people,_ went unsaid.  
  
“How bad have I been?” Sam asked. He watched Dean’s shoulders pause a moment before he continued rinsing off plates.  
  
“Not as bad as you were right before you left for Stanford,” he said. Sam winced despite himself but didn’t say anything. “But, y’know, definitely off.” Dean clacked open the dishwasher and stuck the silverware in, then straightened.  
  
He and Dean regarded each other across a space that felt too small and too large all at once.  
  
“Everything okay?” Dean finally broke the silence. Sam shrugged. Dean’s eyes grew heavier around the edges.  
  
“I’m doing journalism again,” Sam said. “That’s worth a lot.”  
  
“But you’re getting crappy assignments,” Dean leaned back slightly against the sink, arms coming up to cross. Sam shrugged.  
  
“It’s annoying but it’s not the worst thing.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s not the worst thing,” Dean agreed. “So what else?”  
  
“What else?” Sam repeated. “Nothing else.”  
  
“Sammy, c’mon, if there’s something wrong, you can tell me.” Something in Dean’s voice had a touch of desperation. It ignited a spark of annoyance in Sam, a spark that suddenly became a flame.  
  
This, he recalled, was what had partially driven him mad before leaving for Stanford. The drowning knowledge that he and Dean relied on each other far too deeply, and that the eight years spent apart somehow hadn’t frayed that reliance at all.  
  
“It’s shit,” Sam blurted. “All my higher-ups except Rufus are treating me like shit. Like a dirty stray they let in the house. They don’t trust me as far as they can throw me, just like I told you they wouldn’t, and it feels like crap. Okay? That enough for you?”  
  
“Why d’you put up with it?” Dean asked.  
  
“Because there’s nothing. To. Be. Done,” Sam bit out. “I’m not…I can’t just buck the system whenever I want.”  
  
Dean examined his feet briefly and looked back up with his lips pressed together.  
  
“D’you want to quit?” Dean asked, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You can leave. You’re pretty good at that.”  
  
Sam exhaled sharply, then turned around and strode for the front door.  
  
“Where you going?” Dean called out from behind him.  
  
“Out,” Sam said, then added, “You don’t get to fucking do that, Dean.”  
  
“Do what?” Dean asked, and Sam knew,  _he knew_ , Dean was asking a rhetorical question. He answered anyway.  
  
“Emotionally blackmail me for something I did eight years ago, asshole,” Sam all but roared back. He slammed the front door behind him before Dean could answer.


	5. Chapter 5

 

> _“If you saw a man drowning and you could either save him or photograph the event... what kind of film would you use?”_  
>  _\- Author Unknown_

**The New Eldritch Herald – Monday, July 22, 2013**  
  
 **Newest jobs report shows slight increase in Kansas employment**  
By Uriel Benedict/The Associated Press – May saw a three percent decrease in unemployment.  
  
 **Woman’s confession confirmed**  
By Ruby Sangre – Patricia Schroder was officially tried for first degree murder Saturday evening after her husband’s remains were found in their home. She turned herself in to police Friday morning.  
  
 **Lucas Street house fire…**  
 **…**  
 **…**  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Hester Gutowski  
 **Subject:** Wallet??  
  
Dear all,  
  
I’ve lost my wallet, and am desperately hoping I’ve just misplaced it. If anyone finds a black and white striped clasp wallet, please let me know!  
  
Hester  
  
P.S. - I’ve cancelled all my credit cards, so don’t get any ideas.  
  
  
 **To:** Fergus McLeod Crowley  
 **Cc:** Bobby Singer  
 **From:** Lilith Keystone  
  
Construction in our meeting room is officially done, so Crowley has no more excuses for being late to meetings, thanks much.  
  
Lilith  
  
  
 **To:** Jo Harvelle  
 **From:** Kevin Tran  
 **Subject:** F**king video  
  
Jo,  
  
Show Castiel what we made this weekend. If he thinks it has any potential at all, I’ll keep going with this. If not, I’m out. Sorry.  
  
Kevin  
  
*****  
  
Castiel approached Sam’s desk on Monday with his laptop tucked under his arm.  
There was lightness in his chest he usually associated with particularly successful photo shoots and long evenings spent editing.  
  
“Hello, Sam,” he said as he neared the nearly empty news desk. Sam, who’d been reading over something with his hand dug deeply in his hair, lifted his head with a little inhale.  
  
“Hey Cas,” he scrubbed at his face, and the lightness in Castiel’s chest paused when he realized that Sam looked off somehow. His eyes were duller and the little arch on his brow that appeared in times of frustration or confusion seemed to have taken up permanent residence.  
  
“Are you ill?” Castiel asked without thinking. Sam blinked at him.  
  
“No,” he said, then wiped at his face again. “No,” he repeated.  
  
Castiel suspected that if he’d had Jo’s or Anna’s personality, he’d have pushed for a better answer. Instead he hovered at Sam’s desk, the laptop suddenly feeling heavy in his arm.  
  
“I have the pictures from your—Dean’s property,” he tried. Sam glanced at the laptop, his lips lifting ever so slightly.  
  
“Yeah?” he said. “Any good ones?”  
  
“Several,” Castiel answered. “Were you going down to lunch so I can show you?”  
  
“Um,” Sam’s lips returned to a thin line. “Not today. I don’t think. I um…” he glanced away at his computer’s keyboard. “Dean and I are sort of not talking right now.”  
  
“Was it something to do with me?” Castiel asked, and the lightness finally sputtered out and plummeted to his feet.  
  
“What? Oh, God no, don’t worry. No.” Sam turned around more fully in his chair. “No, it’s just crap Dean and I have been letting build up for too long.”  
  
“Oh,” Castiel shifted on his feet. “I’m sorry.” He took a moment to get his thoughts back in order. “At least, it appears, you two are addressing it.”  
  
Sam’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Cas, Dean and I are pretty much the poster children of avoiding talking about problems. It’s, like, in the Winchester DNA.”  
  
“It doesn’t look like that to me,” Castiel pointed out. “If you two are arguing, that means you’re talking about the things you’d rather avoid.” Castiel stopped speaking abruptly at the slightly pained look that seeped into Sam’s expression. He backtracked through his words, wondering what he’d said wrong.  
  
When Sam didn’t speak for too many pounding heartbeats, Castiel added, “Better than me. I haven’t really spoken to my brother since college.”  
  
“What?” Sam looked back up, eyebrows ticking upwards. “What happened?”  
  
“Nothing specifically,” Castiel shifted the laptop from one arm to the other. “He’s accused me too many times of taking advantage of him. Overpowering him. Because for my parents, I was the child in whom they invested the pricey equipment and who won photography competitions. Jimmy was very average. I think he felt ignored.”  
  
Castiel crushed his lips together, almost afraid of blurting out more. About the time an eleven-year-old Jimmy had smashed Castiel’s new camera in a fit of petulance. The way he begrudgingly attended art shows at a young age and outright refused to attend them past high school. One of the last things he’d really said to Castiel—“It’s like being chained to a comet, being your damn brother.”  
  
“Is he younger or older than you?” Sam asked, leaning forward.  
  
“Younger by thirteen minutes,” Castiel said, smiling grimly. “He’s my twin.” Sam leaned back heavily in his chair, eyes wide.  
  
“Wow,” he whispered, then shook his head. “No, sorry, that really shouldn’t make a difference—“  
  
“But it does,” Castiel cut him off. “Identical twins who can’t stand each other. It raises some interesting psychological questions.”  
  
“You’re saying you can’t stand him?” Sam asked, voice low again. Castiel paused, examined the questions from several possible angles.  
  
“Not…I would like to repair our relationship,” he said slowly. “But I don’t see how it would happen. I know that Jimmy sells radio advertising space in Pontiac, Illinois. He has a wife named Amelia and a daughter named Claire, both of whom I’ve met exactly once. But nothing else. He won’t let me into his life.”  
  
Castiel jerked when a large, warm hand landed on his forearm. He looked down and felt his eyes widen at the odd expression on Sam’s features.  
  
“I’m sorry about that,” Sam said. “I really am. I can’t imagine if Dean and I—it’s not like we stopped talking completely when I left.”  
  
Castiel was sorely tempted to ask Sam what he meant by “left,” but he didn’t feel right prying into the darker parts of peoples’ lives if it was solely for his own curiosity.  
  
Instead he nodded, watched Sam’s hand drop self-consciously then shifted his grip on the laptop again.  
  
“Would you like to see the pictures at least?” he asked. Sam rubbed a hand across his mouth briefly.  
  
“We’ll check them out when Dean can see them too,” he said slowly. “If that’s okay.”  
  
“Yes,” Castiel replied, and he surprised himself at how warmly it came out. “That’s perfectly fine.”  
  
“Hey, I still need to get these briefs done by the time Zachariah gets back, but do you want to go to lunch somewhere tomorrow?” Sam asked back straightening. “You still owe me from Friday.”  
  
The lightness came back so quickly, Castiel felt slightly dizzy.  
  
*****  
  
 **The New Eldritch Herald – Tuesday, July 23, 2013**  
  
 **Construction for new dog park officially begins**  
By Victor Henriksen – Workers broke ground Tuesday morning for a two-acre dog park funded by the Humane Society of Central Kansas.  
Photos by Jo Harvelle  
  
 **2013 ArtFest may be the biggest yet**  
By Balthazar Peters – The annual festival has a record 157 artists registered.  
…  
…  
  
 **To:** Kevin Tran  
 **From:** Jo Harvelle  
 **Subject:** Re: F**king video  
  
Kevin,  
  
I will. Sorry I dragged you into this. Sorry I said you have a stick up your ass.  
  
Jo  
  
*****  
  
Castiel’s mind was on at least three different tracks during the editors’ meeting Tuesday morning, which may have explained why he didn’t hear Michael the first two times.  
  
Along one line of thought, he was considering how Uriel’s, Samandriel’s, and Gabe’s clothes formed a very neat palette from the red end of the spectrum. They complemented each other perfectly in that sense, which was amusing when he considered how poorly they matched up personality-wise.  
  
A deeper thought process was spent analyzing and databasing his discussion with Sam the previous day. Every time Sam had smiled. Why he’d smiled. How his eyebrows had knit together when he was thinking. They way he’d run his hands through his hair when he was frustrated. The moments sat in Castiel’s mind like a file folder of glossy prints.  
  
And deeper yet, back in the abandoned byways of Castiel’s mind, he wondered what would happen if he called Jimmy today.  
  
“Novak.”  
  
Castiel cleared his throat in surprise, and distinctly caught sight of Rachel rolling her eyes.  
  
“Sorry,” he said, turning his attention back to Michael. The editor-in-chief did not look so much angry as mildly exasperated. Like Castiel was a fly that’d had the bad sense to show up in his soup.  
  
“Have you given thought to the photo essay we discussed yesterday?” Michael asked.  
  
“I have,” Castiel sat up further in his seat. “I have several locations that would serve well.”  
  
“Excellent,” Michael made a note on his laptop. “I’m making this your story. If you want, wrangle one of the reporters to write you an article to accompany it. Nothing too long, just enough to give readers a sense of what the photo essay’s about.” Castiel nodded then promptly tuned Michael out for the rest of the meeting.  
  
“Castiel,” Jo turned in her chair as soon Castiel took his seat twenty minutes later. “I need some feedback.”  
  
“Feedback for—oh, video?”  
  
“How’d you guess?” Jo asked, her voice only partially sardonic.  
  
“You seemed dead serious about it on Friday,” Castiel replied nevertheless. “Did you have any success?”  
  
“Mm,” Jo clicked at her computer, face grim. “Depends on what you define as success. Here.” She tilted the screen toward Castiel. He watched as Charlie appeared from the shoulders up, sitting on the left hand side of the screen looking to the right. The background looked like someone’s kitchen.  
  
“That’s how the YouTube tutorials said to position people for interviews,” Jo said hurriedly. “And it looks like how the news stations do it, right?”  
  
“It looks…professional,” Castiel said. He watched as the video switched to an image of Charlie sweeping the kitchen floor. She looked up at the camera suddenly, face splitting into a laugh.  
  
“That’s just Anna goofing off,” Jo waved her hand. “The point is the transition from scene to scene. And that there.” The video moved to focus on Charlie’s hands. “That’s a jump cut, and I couldn’t figure out whether it’s allowed in that context. Some sites were saying yes and others no. Does it still look professional?”  
  
“Give me a moment.” Castiel could feel Jo fidgeting beside him, but he remained silent as he watched the video return to Charlie discussing something about orcs. The video blacked out, and Castiel glanced down to the timer. Thirty seconds.  
  
“How long did this take to shoot and edit?” he asked.  
  
“All Saturday afternoon and Sunday,” Jo said in a huff. “We took up most of Saturday figuring out the equipment, and most of Sunday cussing out that damn video editing software we downloaded and I pissed Kevin off badly enough he’s not really talking to me. So after that, maybe five hours.” She leaned forward to peer into Castiel’s face. “So what d’you say?” she asked. “As our photo editor.”  
  
“It looks good,” Castiel said slowly. “Better than good, actually. I can tell you did your research.” Jo broke into a hesitant smile.  
  
“So I’m not crazy? I should keep trying this?”  
  
“If you enjoy it,” Castiel leaned back in his seat. “I think you can turn this into a valuable skill.”  
  
“Are you going to bring it up to Michael or Raphael?” Jo asked. Castiel toyed absently with his tie.  
  
“No,” he said, and his voice came out firmer than he’d expected. “Not until you want me to. What they don’t know at this point isn’t going to hurt them.”  
  
Jo paused, enough for Castiel to glance at her.  
  
“What?” he asked.  
  
“Nothing,” Jo ducked her head back to her computer. “You going to be around for lunch?”  
  
“Er, I’m actually going out to eat today.” Jo’s head snapped back up.  
  
“With whom?” she asked, eyes narrowing.  
  
“Um. Sam…for goodness sake, stop  _laughing_!”  
  
“I’m not, I’m not,” Jo protested despite all evidence to the contrary. “That’s just…nothing. Where are you guys going?”  
  
“I’m not sure yet,” Castiel said, feeling much less genial in the face of a Jo who looked like her birthday, Christmas, and a pay raise had all come on the same day.  
  
“Oh, take him to the Roadhouse, Mom’s dying to meet him,” Jo flapped her hand at Castiel. “Promise me, okay?”  
  
“I,” Castiel replied primly, “am not promising anything.”  
  
*****  
  
“Is this one of yours?” Sam asked, squinting at a framed black and white photo of a weather-worn man hanging above their booth in a far corner of the Roadhouse.  
  
“Mm?” Castiel lowered his glass of water and peered up as well. “Oh, yes it is. His name is Mick Fronzy. He comes here on Saturdays before he buys groceries.”  
  
Sam glanced at Castiel with some expression Castiel could not quite pinpoint. And, it suddenly occurred to him: how had Sam recognized the photo as his?  
  
“Now don’t tell me,” a voice cut toward them. “You’re the other Winchester boy.”  
  
Sam and Castiel looked up to find Ellen, hair pulled back in a smooth ponytail.  
  
“That depends,” Sam held out his hand, putting on that disarming grin that still made Castiel think of floppy-eared dogs. “Is being a Winchester good or bad around here?”  
  
“The amount of business we get from Winchesters is usually worth everything else,” Ellen gave a wink as she accepted Sam’s hand. “Ellen Harvelle. Jo’s mom.”  
  
“Sam Winchester. Dean’s little brother,” Sam provided. “Jo’s threatened me a couple times if I didn’t eat here soon.”  
  
“Bet she did,” Ellen shook her head, then looked to Castiel. “Speaking of which, are you the one responsible for the video thing?”  
  
“Um,” Castiel shifted in his seat. “Possibly. Indirectly.”  
  
“You know she was driving to the Best Buy in Vermillion on Saturday morning?” Ellen asked. “That’s at least an hour and a half trip. And you should have seen her this weekend wrestling with that program. I don’t think I’ve seen her like this since college finals.”  
  
“The final product looked very impressive,” Castiel offered. Ellen merely shook her head again and asked for their orders. As she left with a promise to have their food there in a jiffy, Castiel found Sam watching her with a slight smile.  
  
“I see where Jo gets it,” Sam explained when he caught Castiel’s eye.  
  
“I have a photo of them,” Castiel shared, “and they have the exact same expression. Down to the hand gestures.” Sam grinned and shook his head.  
  
“So you took all of these?” Sam gestured to the photos dotting the walls of the Roadhouse. Castiel nodded and explained how he came here every Saturday morning.  
  
“Sometimes I come in on weekday mornings too,” Castiel added. “If I have time after my usual rounds.”  
  
“Your usual rounds?” Castiel nodded again and began idly tearing his straw wrapper apart.  
  
“I have a habit of driving around town and the country roads before work.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“I like to see what’s happening,” Castiel shrugged. “I’ve gotten some of my best shots from keeping an eye on what people do in the mornings.”  
  
Sam was looking at him almost too hard so Castiel turned his eyes down to his straw wrapper.  
  
“What do you see?” Sam asked. Castiel took a moment to think.  
  
“There’s an older gentleman who’s from Puerto Rico and lives on Yallo Road. He comes out every morning in his robe to put fresh birdseed in his birdfeeder. He knows all the local bird species and can mimic their calls.” Another tear of wrapper. “There’s about fifteen families that go to the 7 a.m. service at St. Joseph Catholic Church nearly every single morning. One of them is a family with four girls and one baby boy.” Someone at the next table was speaking loudly about their dog’s hip replacement surgery. Castiel wished they’d tone it down. “At 6 a.m. there’s an exchange of shifts at the Singenta factory; the graveyard shift goes home and the early morning workers come in. You should speak to them sometime. They all have very different stories.  
  
“I think my favorite people in the mornings are the farming families,” Castiel continued, almost speaking to himself at this point. “The children doing chores before school. Their parents checking on the sick cow or listening to the price reports for corn or soybean. It’s not an easy job. But plenty of them would never consider another profession.”  
  
Castiel finally looked up at Sam. He paused at the expression he found there. Bright, hazel eyes with a sheen of some emotion that Castiel didn’t quite recognize.  
  
“You grow up here, Cas?” Sam asked.  
  
“No,” he said. “Illinois.”  
  
“What are you doing here then?” Sam asked, and his eyes had yet to leave Castiel’s. “You do realize that any major news organization would be lucky to have you.”  
  
Castiel shrugged. “I applied at a few places. I ended up choosing New Eldritch because it’s so rural. Everything else was in huge concrete buildings in large cities.”  
  
“I guess I understand that,” Sam took a sip from his water glass. Castiel finished off his straw wrapper and tucked Sam’s words into the back of his head to mull over later.  
  
Ellen still hadn’t arrived, so Castiel asked, “Do you want to play a game my professor once taught me?” Sam straightened, head tilting in curiosity. “That man,” Castiel nodded toward the man who’d been discussing his dog’s surgery. “Guess what his profession is.”  
  
Sam blinked at him, then lifted his head and glanced at a man bent over a plate of chicken tenders.  
  
“I dunno,” he said after a moment. “What?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Castiel shrugged. “But I’m going to guess something indoors, based on his skin tone, especially at this time of year. He has some kind of drinking problem, since I just saw him pour something from a hipflask into his coffee five minutes ago. I’d guess he works at home, because that is definitely not office attire, barely public attire. Self-employed writer perhaps?”  
  
Sam glanced at the man again, noted the scraggly beard and ratty shirt then looked back at Castiel with his mouth curved into a slight smile.  
  
“You play this game often, Sherlock?” he asked.  
  
“Nearly all the time,” Castiel said. “It’s a good way to exercise observation skills. You pick someone now.”  
  
They’d moved through five people, and had agreed on three of them, when Ellen swung by with their lunch before quickly leaving them again to tackle the lunch rush.  
  
Their conversation went in myriad directions after that, from sports (of which Castiel knew nothing), to national politics to the photo essay Castiel was working on to books they needed the time to read.  
  
And then: “So, can I ask you something?” Sam asked, frowning ever so slightly down at his salad as he tossed and retossed it with his fork.  
  
“Of course,” Castiel said around a bite of hamburger.  
  
“Do you know Crowley? Head of advertising?” Castiel paused then set his hamburger down.  
  
“Well enough.”  
  
“I met him last week and he said something sort of odd.” Sam shook his head and let his fork finally halt. “He wanted to know how my old editor at the Los Angeles Times was doing.”  
  
Castiel frowned. “That  _is_  odd. Crowley worked for an advertising firm in New Mexico before coming here. Who was your editor?”  
  
“Lucian. Lucian Morningstar.”  
  
Castiel felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.  
  
“He’s the one who wrote my letter of recommendation, actually,” Sam continued. “So, do you know how Crowley and Lucian would have ever met? Because Bobby said what you just told me, that Crowley had never worked for a newspaper before the New Eldritch Herald. And I tried searching for any mention of Lucian here, but I got nothing. And it really shouldn’t be bothering me as much as it is but…”  
  
“No,” Castiel said, his voice sounding distant to himself. “No, you wouldn’t have found anything about Lucian here.”  
  
“Really?” Sam’s face fell slightly. “Then where would they have met?”  
  
“You misunderstand,” Castiel shook his head. “You would never have found any mention of Lucian in our archives, but he definitely used to work here. He’s Michael’s brother.”  
  
*****  
  
“What?”  
  
Sam felt his vantage point of everything swing into a whole new direction.  
  
“What?” he repeated.  
  
Castiel nodded, looking sober. “No one talks about it. Not within Michael’s hearing, anyway. Or Raphael’s or Gabe’s, for that matter.”  
  
“Hang on, hang on,” Sam leaned back in the seat, salad forgotten. “Gabe?”  
  
Castiel sighed, rubbed the side of his nose with an open hand, and overall looked as if he regretted entering this conversation.  
  
“Michael and Lucian are brothers and their father used to be the editor-in-chief of this newspaper,” he explained. “This was years ago, long before I arrived. But the man was apparently a genius. Some of the New Eldritch Herald’s best years were under his guidance.  
  
“Now, Michael and Lucian both decided to follow their father into journalism and became co-editors-in-chief after he retired. Raphael and Gabe had been part of the newspaper nearly as long as Michael and Lucian. Under the four of them, we had several excellent years, almost as good as the old days.  
  
“I was hired at that point, and I saw them working together. They were all…inseparable; practically family. Michael and Lucian, they were especially close. You and Dean remind me of them, actually.”  
  
“So what happened?” Sam asked, ignoring the little flip in his stomach.  
  
“A difference in opinion,” Castiel shrugged. “It started small, I think. But suddenly Lucian was suggesting changes to the newspaper that Michael wouldn’t tolerate. Michael was always the obedient son, see. He wanted to maintain what their father had done. Lucian was more willing to question. To challenge. And eventually it got so bad that Michael made the executive decision to cast Lucian out. Though if you ask me, it wasn’t so much Michael banishing his brother as it was Lucian seeing himself out. I mean, he changed his last name, I feel like that says something.”  
  
“Didn’t Gabe and Raphael have any say?”  
  
“No one knows what Raphael really thinks,” Castiel shrugged. “But I think she agreed with Michael, in the end. Gabe though…” Castiel shook his head. “I think Gabe understands why Michael did what he did, but he only understands begrudgingly. I only know that a year after Lucian left, he left his position as a managing editor and took over the opinions section. He’d probably have left entirely if Michael hadn’t convinced him to stay.”  
  
“Wow,” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “I never would have guessed, seeing how they all interact now.”  
  
“It’s not the way it used to be,” Castiel agreed sadly. “Raphael and Michael have become icier and more rigid than ever. Gabe…well, you should see some of the things he pulls at the editors’ meetings. But Michael never raises a word against him. I don’t think he can.”  
  
Castiel fell silent, his hands lying flat on the table. Sam stared at them as he sifted through his own thoughts.  
  
“You said you worked with Lucian?” Sam finally asked.  
  
“Briefly.”  
  
“What was he like then?”  
  
“Very charming,” Castiel said immediately. “Charismatic. He was the kind of person you wanted to listen to. To follow.” Sam released an amused huff.  
  
“Hasn’t changed much then,” he said. He found Castiel leaning forward, face piqued with interest. “He was the most likeable editor at the Los Angeles Times,” Sam explained. “Charismatic, just like you said. Dead smart, too.” He shook his head and smiled ever so slightly. “What’re the chances, huh?”  
  
“Very small,” Castiel supplied.  
  
Sam pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if it would sort out the thoughts galloping through his mind.  
  
“So if I get this straight,” he said, “Michael  _sees_  that I used to work for his disowned brother, decides to hire me anyway, and then treats me like crap to…” he lifted his eyes toward Castiel. “What, get back at Lucian? ‘Cause that’s honestly a shit revenge plan, I’m pretty sure Lucian doesn’t give two fucks what I’m doing.”  
  
“Perhaps it’s more innocent than that. Or maybe,” Castiel added in a voice that sounded almost reluctant. “I think family can make people act very strange sometimes.”  
  
Well fuck.  
  
*****  
  
 **To:** Kevin Tran  
 **From:** Jo Harvelle  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: F**king video  
  
Kevin,  
  
So Castiel liked it. *hopeful smile*  
  
Jo  
  
  
 **To:** Jo Harvelle  
 **From:**  Kevin Tran  
 **Subject:**  Re: Re: Re: F**king video  
  
Jo,  
  
Yeah, okay.  
You’re right though, I do have a stick up my ass. Just like you’re stupidly hard-headed.  
I’ll text Anna and Charlie about a time we all can meet.  
  
Kevin  
  
*****  
  
Sam sat in his car in the driveway watching the front door of Dean’s house. He’d turned off the engine five minutes ago and still hadn’t moved.  
  
As the sun neared evening, Sam stared at the edge of the woods and thought of finding Castiel in them just a few days ago. The mental image made his mouth lift at the corner.  
  
“Do you want to do anything about it?” Castiel had asked earlier in the Roadhouse, as he and Sam had stepped into the parking lot. They’d both been more subdued and Sam almost regretted bringing Crowley up at all.  
  
“What would I do about it?” Sam had shrugged. “March into Michael’s office and tell him I know everything?” Castiel had screwed up his face in a way that made Sam wonder if he wanted to do exactly that.  
  
Sam’s head jerked up slightly when the front door opened to reveal Dean with a bag of trash. His brother’s eyes flicked over Sam’s car briefly before he strode to the garbage bin, dumped the bag, and disappeared back into the house.  
  
Sam rapped a nervous staccato on the steering wheel, then threw the door open.  
  
He walked into the house to find Dean sitting at the kitchen table, the innards of his old radio spread before him. Sam wondered if the thing had finally crapped out.  
  
What he wanted, he realized as he stood at the kitchen doorway, was to be able to walk in and spill all his frustrations and anger onto Dean like he had as a kid. Then Dean would say something funny to make the whole thing sound less troublesome, or he’d threaten someone bodily harm. Then he might ask Sam if he wanted to grab something from Steak ‘N Shake, even if it was nearing 11 p.m., and by the end of the whole thing, Sam would be slurping on a milkshake and wondering why he’d been getting so worked up over something so beatable.  
  
But that had been the whole trouble, hadn’t it? Sam had never learned how to solve his own problems. It had never been Sam against the world, but Sam and Dean against the world. And how was Sam to have known what the difference was, until he faced college by himself, with no familiar presence at his shoulder?  
  
And sometimes Sam found himself deeply afraid that he’d never learn how to live without it.  
  
“Hey,” Sam said, peeling off his coat and draping it over a chair. Dean glanced up once.  
  
“There’s leftovers in the fridge,” he said. Sam watched his brother’s fingers play across a radio part.  
  
“Thanks,” he pulled the chair out and sat down. He picked up the nearest radio part and examined it closely. Sam had never had much interest in machinery and couldn’t for the life of him say what the part did. “What’s wrong with it?”  
  
“The capacitor’s probably worn out,” Dean said vaguely, still squinting at the piece. “But this thing’s been giving me so much damn trouble, who the hell knows?”  
  
Sam set the piece down and considered what would happen if he suggested that Dean buy a new radio. Probably get a screwdriver chucked at his head.  
  
God, he wanted to shout ‘Michael and Lucian are  _brothers_  and look at what they’re doing now! What if that’s you and me in ten years, Dean? I don’t think I could bear that.’  
  
“Remember when we were living in that little town in Maine?” he asked instead. He saw Dean pause out of the corner of his eye. “And you fixed that old TV? Then you started going around town fixing everyone’s stuff?”  
  
“I made good money that year,” Dean said, almost automatically. He was looking at the radio part in his loose fingers, almost grinning. “We bought a really nice mountain bike with the money.”  
  
“We?” Sam raised his eyebrows. “I don’t remember you letting me touch that bike.”  
  
“Right. Because you didn’t sneak rides every time I was out of the house,” Dean replied.  
  
“C’mon,” Sam leaned back in his chair. “That was practically my job as the little brother.”  
  
“Being a pain in the ass, you mean,” Dean hunched back over his disemboweled radio, but something had lifted in the corners of his eyes.  
  
Sam watched Dean for another few minutes and then stood up to find the leftovers. When he came back, he and Dean spent the next half hour arguing over whether the bike had been stolen or Sam had crashed it.  
  
And it probably wasn’t the deep, long talk he and Dean needed, but Sam decided it was enough for now.


	6. Chapter 6

 

> _“The difference between literature and journalism is that journalism is unreadable and literature is not read.”_  
>  _\- Oscar Wilde_

 

 **The New Eldritch Herald – Wednesday, July 24, 2013**  
  
 **New Eldritch Historic Society members begin petition**  
By Ruby Sangre – Members opposed to the construction of a Walgreens in historic New Eldritch have begun a citywide petition campaign.  
  
 **Sunflower State Games archers give it their best shot**  
By Gordon Walker – The contest strove to determine Kansas’ best with a bow and arrow. Officials estimated they had 112 people competing in this year's event.  
Photos by Jo Harvelle  
  
 **Elderberries appear as a fledgling industry**  
By Bela Talbot – More and more Kansas famers are trying their hand at the plant Hippocrates called his “medicine chest.”  
Photos by Castiel Novak  
…  
…  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Hester Gutowski  
 **Subject:** Wallet  
  
Okay guys,  
  
At this point it’s not even about the credit cards or drivers license, I’ve gotten new ones of those. I just want that wallet back. It cost me way too much for me to lose it.  
  
Hester  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Tessa Harvester  
 **Subject:** Re: Wallet  
  
Hester,  
  
Why are you so sure it’s in the newsroom?  
  
Tessa  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Hester Gutowski  
 **Subject** : Re: Re: Wallet  
  
Because I had my wallet when I came into work that day and it was gone at the end of the day, and I didn’t leave the newsroom. You guys had better not be playing some kind of prank on me.  _Gabe_.  
  
Hester  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From** : Gabe Lokey  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Wallet  
  
Hester, I’m hurt. You ought to know that petty thievery is far from my usual style.  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From** : Raphael Dusan  
 **Subject:** Bulletin uses  
  
I’d like to remind everyone yet again that the bulletin mailing list is to be used for news and announcements only.  
  
Thank you,  
  
Raphael  
  
*****  
  
Sam was definitely staring. And it wasn’t as if he could even  _help_ it either. Michael was literally ten feet away from him in some discussion with Zachariah. How could Sam not watch him for some gesture or expression, or some phrase that would echo what he’d seen back in Los Angeles, from the vantage point of his old desk?  
  
Funny, but Michael’s dark hair glistening under the fluorescent lights really did not match up with Lucian’s fairer bird’s nest.  
  
“What’s your favorite part?”  
  
Sam distinctly felt his elbow slip with surprise, and just stopped himself from face planting the desk.  
  
“What?” he blinked at Ruby.  
  
“I tend to be an ass woman myself,” Ruby continued, watching Michael with academic concentration. “But then there’s those forearms.”  
  
“I don’t,” Sam had to duck his head, mostly to hide the laugh rising to the back of his lips. “I’m not checking out our boss. I want to keep my job.”  
  
“Mm,” Ruby looked sideways at Sam and threw one arm up on the back of her chair, but a wry smile had begun to creep onto her face. “Whatever you say. Your work really that boring right now?” She peered at Sam’s screen, which at the moment was still on the New Eldritch Herald’s homepage.  
  
“Eh, sort of,” Sam said truthfully, flipping at the newest press release still sitting on top of his keyboard. “You?”  
  
“Still following the damn Walgreens story. And I just finished a story about someone losing control of the machinery down at the Singenta factory,” Ruby said, eyes on Sam’s pile of briefs, “so there’s that.” Something flickered in Sam’s mind, but then Rufus suddenly emerged from no obvious place, as he was wont to do sometimes.  
  
“Ruby,” he said, “you have a minute?” Sam turned back to his computer as Ruby and Rufus descended into muted conversation. His press release—some kind of update on the same construction that had been going on at Tenth Street for the last four weeks, Sam didn’t really care at this point—stared up at him from his keyboard. Sam slid it aside and refreshed the front page.  
  
The story Ruby had mentioned, the one about Singenta, popped up on the list of minor stories. Sam clicked it in a vague compulsion that he couldn’t quite place, and scanned the first paragraph.  
  
An as yet unnamed man, operating heavy machinery, had reportedly been feeling ill of late and lost control of said heavy machinery. Followed by a promise from the factory’s PR person that Singenta was committed to the health and safety of its staff and this and that and yadda yadda yadda.  
  
Sam opened a new tab and typed in “Singenta.” A fertilizer and pesticide company, he recognized within a few seconds of staring at the company’s website. A few more minutes of sifting revealed that the factory here in New Eldritch focused on fertilizer. “The largest producer of fertilizer in the Midwest,” the website read.  
  
The press release was still watching him balefully, so Sam dragged a spare phone book on top of it and searched for Singenta in the news. Mostly business expansions and stock market news, he found, along with a flurry of attention a few years ago when it had been bought up by some larger company.  
  
A few pages of results in, Sam straightened. After rereading the headline, he clicked on a link to a story from 2009 headlined “Fatal Fertilizer: Class action lawsuit brought against Singenta.”  
  
He was still reading when Castiel and Jo approached him to ask if he was coming down to lunch or not.  
  
“What time is it?” Sam asked a little blankly. He looked around and realized that Ruby had somehow disappeared without his noticing.  
  
“Almost 12:30,” Jo said, right as Sam noticed the laptop stuck under Castiel’s arm. Something sparked through the fug of Singenta and fertilizer.  
  
“You have your pictures?” he asked, grinning up at Castiel. The photographer nodded back, almost bashfully.  
  
“Yeah, so get your ass moving if you want to see them,” Jo ordered.  
  
Ten minutes later, Sam found himself squished between Castiel and Dean, Jo just behind him, as they all crowded toward the screen. The break room door opened to admit Bobby.  
  
“Regular party in here, in’t it?” he asked.  
  
“C’mon Bobby,” Dean waved his sandwich. “We’re having a private showing.”  
  
Bobby eyed the small crowd huddled around Castiel’s laptop, grunted and strode over to peer over Castiel’s head.  
  
“Where’s that?” he asked after contemplating the photo of a sun-dappled cedar.  
  
“Out on Dean’s property,” Sam supplied and nudged Castiel sitting stiffly beside him. “This guy got himself caught trespassing.” Castiel shrugged with one shoulder, ears turning pinker.  
  
“Took some damn good pictures while he was doing it though,” Dean tore another bite from his sandwich and went back a few pictures. “Check this one out, Bobby.”  
  
A pheasant, silhouetted against the tall grasses behind it, stared out at them in amazing detail. Sam could pick out the individual feathers on its head. Bobby took his time examining it, then glanced at Castiel.  
  
“You ever do independent work, kid?”  
  
“I freelance a little for the extra money,” Castiel said, his fingers still tightly wound together in his lap. Sam wanted to reach out and untangle them.  
  
“This one’s my favorite,” Jo announced, going forward several photos until she landed on an image of Sam just stepping out of the copse of trees, face slightly blurry, but still recognizably confused.  
  
“Hey, you got a picture of the Samsquatch,” Dean said, and then cracked up at his own joke. Jo’s face was threatening to split apart and even Bobby released a very suspicious sounding snort.  
  
“That’s perfect timing, Cas,” Sam leaned forward, grinning hard as well. When he glanced over, Castiel’s entire face had turned red.  
  
“I thought you were an animal,” he admitted.  
  
“Really now? I was making that much noise?”  
  
“I guessed a moose.”  
  
Something clattered, and everyone looked over to find Dean bending over so far, his head was hanging between his knees. He sounded like he might be choking, so Jo slapped him a few times on the back.  
  
“A moose,” Dean wheezed after several more moments. “Oh God, that’s too perfect. Cas,” Dean added, pointing loosely at Castiel. “You’re fucking hilarious. A  _moose_.”  
  
Castiel, who was looking increasingly bewildered, looked to Sam with wide, blue eyes. Sam grinned and shrugged. In the background, Jo started picking up on Dean’s laughter and Bobby muttered something about break room privileges.  
  
Sam leaned back in his chair and tried to remember the last time he’d felt this content.  
  
*****  
  
 **The New Eldritch Herald – Thursday, July 25, 2013**  
  
 **New boutique opens in downtown New Eldritch**  
By Becky Rosen – Sisters Wendy Trinidad and Gretchen Nielson have always dreamed of opening their own business.  
  
 **FBI says suspicious package on Kansas City-area bus a hoax**  
By The Associated Press - Investigators were on the scene in Blue Summit for more than 10 hours Tuesday after a bus driver for First Transit found the package.  
  
 **Local artist Ophelia Hopkins dies at 86**  
By Tessa Harvester – Hopkins’ evocative oil paintings of Americana won her national prestige.  
  
 **Schroder to go on trial for murder of husband**  
By Ruby Sangre – Patricia Schroder, who turned herself in to police claiming to have killed her husband, will be tried today for first degree murder.  
…  
…  
  
 **To:** The New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Hester Gutowski  
 **Subject:** Sorry  
  
So I found my wallet yesterday. It was wedged between my desk and the wall. Must have fallen down there. Sorry for the fuss.  
  
Hester  
  
  
 **To:** The New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Becky Rosen  
 **Subject:** Re: Sorry  
  
Hester,  
  
We’re just glad you found it!  
  
Becky ♥  
  
 **To:** Anna Milton  
 **Cc:** Kevin Tran; Charlie Bradbury  
 **From:** Jo Harvelle  
  
Hey all,  
  
Video editing party at Anna’s apartment tonight! Be there or be square.  
  
Jo  
  
*****  
  
Where was his 50mm lens? Castiel  _needed_ his 50mm lens.  
  
“It’s almost been a day,” Charlie fretted from Jo’s recently vacated seat. She dropped her gaze from the computer screen down to the phone perched on her knees. “Do you think she lost her phone?”  
  
“I’m not sure why you’re getting fussed,” Castiel said, his voice somewhat muffled as he dug through the bottom of his messenger bag. He emerged with a deep scowl. Had he left the lens at home?  
  
“Why I’m getting—?” Charlie cut herself off with a groan. She jabbed a finger at a Facebook picture of a young woman with thick black hair dressed like she belonged in someone’s theatre department. “Look at her. How am I supposed to concentrate on _anything_?”  
  
Castiel eyed the photo a moment. The photographer would have been better off using the rule of thirds, he decided. “Is she an actress?” he ventured, yanking open a drawer beneath his desk and shuffling through it hopefully. Charlie gave him a deeply disparaging look.  
  
“Cosplay, Castiel. Have you been listening to a word I’ve been saying? I just met her at an anime convention. Cosplay.”  
  
“My apologies,” he said. “I’m sure she’ll call you back very soon, you can set up a date with her, and then you can go back to being productive. Or as close to productive as you ever get.”  
  
Something hit the side of Castiel’s head but he was too busy triumphantly withdrawing his 50mm lens from the drawer to mind.  
  
“It’s called efficiency, Nerf herder.”  
  
“I don’t understand that reference,” Castiel stuffed the lens in his bag. “Tell Jo that I’ll give her city council photos a final rundown when I get back.”  
  
“It means you’re scruffy and half-witted,” Charlie called out at Castiel’s receding back.  
  
“Noted,” Castiel raised one hand, and felt something else hit his back. He suspected it might have been a rubber eraser.  
  
As Castiel burst into the summer sunlight, he realized with a start that his pockets were sans car keys. That led to him standing in the middle of the parking lot, digging through his bag and wishing he kept things more organized. Castiel remained so intent on finding his keys that he nearly didn’t hear Sam until he was right on top of him.  
  
“Cas?”  
  
“Uh?” Castiel whipped his head up, keys dangling from two fingers. “Oh,” he readjusted his bag strap. “Sorry. Hello.”  
  
“Hey,” Sam smiled ever so slightly, but it wasn’t the full, dimpled smile that invariably made Castiel think of Labrador retrievers greeting their humans at the door. This one came out more subdued. “Um, I have a weird favor to ask.”  
  
As Castiel waited for Sam to clarify, he had a sudden notion that he and Sam looked like Bernstein and Deep Throat from “All the President’s Men.” Sam still in the shadow of the building, Castiel out in the sunlight.  
  
“You’re going to the court house in Havertown, right?” Castiel wondered for a blank moment how Sam possibly knew that, then abruptly recalled their lunch discussion a few days ago.  
  
“Yes,” he agreed.  
  
“Could I tag along?” Castiel tilted his head then brightened.  
  
“Do you have a story?” he asked. “Are you covering the Schroder trial?”  
  
“Er, no, not really,” Sam admitted. “It’s more of an…independent venture.” Castiel noticed, for the first time, a battered reporter’s notebook sticking out of Sam’s front pocket. The same notebook, he realized, Sam had been using for the fire story several weeks ago. “Listen,” Sam hastened, and Castiel lifted his eyes to Sam’s face again. “I’ll explain in the car.”  
  
And despite himself, Castiel’s mind sped back to keywords like “Rodriguez incident.” Sam shifted on his feet like a nervous ten-year-old. Castiel found himself nodding. “Should I wait?” he asked.  
  
“No, no, I’ve got everything,” Sam assured him, his relief evident. Castiel smiled, only slightly, and led Sam to his car.  
  
As they sped down the highway ten minutes later, NPR mumbling in the background, Castiel listened carefully as Sam explained himself.  
  
“It’s to do with Singenta,” Sam said, hair flying across his forehead from the window just cracked open enough to admit a steady breeze.  
  
“The fertilizer plant?” Castiel glanced over at Sam, and found one of his thumbs distractedly rubbing at the faded red cover of the reporter’s notebook.  
  
Sam nodded. “You remember Amy Pond? The fire we covered? She was a Singenta employee, worked on the plant floor. Now Robert Killian, he’s also an employee, he lost control of the machinery he was working for some reason.” Sam lifted his hand, one finger pointed. He used it to connect two invisible points in front of his face. “From what I can tell, very similar symptoms,” he continued. “Both had reported extreme fatigue for days or even weeks.”  
  
“Is that enough to say they’re connected?” Castiel asked. His hand snaked out to turn the radio completely off, Melissa Block’s voice fading away.  
  
“Maybe. But it’s made suspicious by the fact that Singenta’s been in trouble for dangerous working conditions in other plants.”  
  
“Such as?”  
  
“It varies, but one the big one has always been excessive exposure to the ah…the byproducts from the fertilizer production process. Dust, gas, that kind of thing. That, and how the company handled the waste products.”  
  
Castiel slowed at a traffic light and took the time to properly examine Sam, with his big hands framing some invisible idea in the air before him. Castiel didn’t think he’d seen this particular version of Sam since they’d sat in this very car, driving back from the Pond fire.  
  
“And you think that Pond and Killian are suffering from the same health issues?” Sam’s hands lowered slightly.  
  
“I’m not a conspiracy nut,” Sam said, almost defensively. “It’s just that…here,” Sam flipped open his notebook, paper rustling as he searched for the right page. The light changed and Castiel dragged his eyes back to the road.  
  
“So get this. When I interviewed Amy’s son, he described all these symptoms in his mom,” Sam cleared his throat. “Stiffness, coughing—lots of coughing—rashes and a dry throat. And when I looked around online, those all fell under long-term exposure to fluoride. Flouride poisoning. And compounds containing  _fluoride_ —“ Sam flipped forward a few more pages. “Are a standard byproduct in phosphate fertilizer plants, which is what the Singenta plant here is.” He squinted at, from what Castiel could tell was, a solid page of tightly packed handwriting. “And then there’s the whole issue with how the waste silicofluorides are put in public water supplies but that’s beside the point.” His fingers fluttered over the notebook like nervous birds. “I mean not  _beside_ the point, it’s still an issue, but it’s not the one I’ve been focused on, yeah?” He looked up at Castiel, biting his lip. “Are you following me at all?”  
  
“I am,” Castiel replied slowly. “When did you start researching all this?”  
  
“Um. Yesterday.” Sam rubbed at the back of his neck. “Briefs really don’t take that long to put together. So I have some extra time.”  
  
Castiel had to stifle the sudden urge to laugh at the half-guilty, half-defiant expression on Sam’s face, like a child caught in some small crime.  
  
“If I were you,” Castiel said instead, “I would see if I could get copies of the factory’s health and safety reports.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s the other thing,” Sam shifted in his seat so he could face Castiel more fully. “Usually these kinds of companies release some version of a health and safety report card, but I haven’t found anything from Singenta. Which doesn’t usually mean anything good.” He thought a moment, idly picking at his lip. “Where’s the Kansas OSHA office?”  
  
“Wichita,” Castiel said, “which is a solid four hour’s drive, in the right traffic.”  
  
“I guess I could say I’m from a worker’s rights organization,” Sam half murmured to himself. “Or maybe that’s too complicated. Just someone with a family member working in the factory.”  
  
“If I might ask,” Castiel interrupted this line of thought. “Were you planning on making this an article?”  
  
Sam’s hand fell from his lip. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe, if it turns into something that needs to be reported.”  
  
Castiel gave him another few seconds before asking, “And did you envision you doing the reporting or…?”  
  
“Who the hell knows, Cas?” Sam snorted and rubbed at his eyes. “I don’t see Michael or Zachariah being too thrilled at the idea. Probably I’ll just pitch it to them and then they can assign it to Victor or Ruby.”  
  
Castiel did not miss the note of bitterness in these words, but he didn’t comment on it either.  
  
“So your goal at the court house is?”  
  
“Oh, to see if anyone’s filed charges against this factory specifically. It’s possible,” Sam explained. “Usually, I’d look at a digital database but…” He shrugged.  
  
“It’s New Eldritch,” Castiel supplied. “Believe me, I know. You should have seen the hissy fit people threw when we finally digitized council meeting minutes.”  
  
“And yet the newspaper’s website is getting, what, twice the readership the print version is? According to Charlie at least.”  
  
“Twice a depressingly low number is still a depressingly low number,” Castiel shrugged as he pulled into the courthouse parking lot.


	7. Chapter 7

 

> _“Journalism can never be silent: that is its greatest virtue and its greatest fault. It must speak, and speak immediately, while the echoes of wonder, the claims of triumph and the signs of horror are still in the air.”_  
>  _\- Henry Anatole Grunwald_

 

 **The New Eldritch Herald – Friday, July 26, 2013**  
  
 **2013 ArtFest begins**  
By Balthazar Peters – The four-day festival, the largest yet, opened with a speech from Mayor Adam Mortimer and a moment of silence for local artist Ophelia Hopkins, who recently passed away.  
  
 **New Eldritch City Council to meet Saturday for budget work session**  
By Victor Henriksen **–** The meeting is expected to last about six hours and will cover some of the areas of City Manager Quinton Fergus’ proposed budget.  
  
 **Fire Chief announces retirement…**  
  
*****  
  
The next morning, Jo sat Castiel down as soon as he returned from the editorial meeting and had him watch her mock TV story, like the kind that might show up on the local news station. Castiel could tell that Jo had made strides since her first video. The images were better composed, the volume crisper, the transition from scene to scene less jarring.  
  
“Really?” Jo gave a half-suppressed grin when Castiel told her this. “I figured out that the camera has different settings for different kinds of light, you know, I think that helped.”  
  
“Absolutely,” Castiel nodded. “Though I’d also point out that you could have waited a few more seconds before your dialogue started. Especially when Kevin began talking about new roads. You need to give the audience time to process what they’re looking at.”  
  
His own words almost surprised him, for Castiel had never had more than a passing interest in videography. But he found as he picked at and analyzed Jo’s video that certain aspects appeared to him as almost obvious; timing, pacing of the story, the pattern of movement, the complement of colors and shapes.  
  
He and Jo were arguing over whether or not five seconds of empty road were too boring, when Charlie all but sprinted up to them waving her phone.  
  
“Gilda called back,” she squealed mostly to Jo. “She wants to meet up in a few weeks at a con in Chicago.”  
  
“Ahh!” Jo shouted in congratulations, and then demanded to know exactly how Gilda had asked, word for word. Castiel listened with mild bemusement for several seconds. When it became clear that Jo would be taken up for the next few minutes with Charlie’s recounting of an hour’s worth of conversation, he opened up his email, just for the sake of getting it out of the way.  
  
And there, between a notice from Joshua reminding everyone that their hours were due for the next pay period and a thank you from the elderberry grower for the wonderful photographs, he found an email from Sam.  
  
 **To:** Castiel Novak  
 **From:** Sam Winchester  
 **Subject:** Question?  
  
Hey Cas,  
  
Still waiting on the lady in charge of court records to get back to me, but until then I have a question for you. Have time to talk?  
  
Sam  
  
Something uneasy stirred inside Castiel, and after rereading the email he moved on to a message from Gordon letting him know that the interview had been moved to 9 a.m. He would reply later.  
  
Yet somehow (perhaps deliberately) Castiel did not have time to get back to his emails for the rest of the day. And innocent as it was, Sam’s email gnawed at him like a tune stuck on repeat in his head.  
  
After Sam had emerged from the courthouse yesterday reporting that it would take a few days to get any results, Castiel had decided that, perhaps, the whole Singenta business would be left alone for a while. Which was not something Castiel particularly minded.  
  
Not that Sam was wrong to scrutinize Singenta. For goodness sake, every sleepy-eyed freshman in Journalism 101 learned the media’s role as a watchdog to the powerful. But Castiel also sensed a danger in what Sam was doing. From whom, he didn’t feel comfortable outright acknowledging.  
  
Sam caught Castiel on his way out of the newsroom.  
  
“Hey Cas!” Sam’s voice drifted across the pavement, and Castiel turned around to find the man loping toward him, the sun sifted through the windows creating a halo around his hair. Castiel slowed enough to let Sam catch up to him and hoped—  
  
“Did you get my email?”  
  
Well.  
  
“Yes I did,” Castiel said. “I didn’t have time to reply.”  
  
“No worries,” Sam glanced at Naomi as she passed them, frowning down at her phone. “D’you have time to talk at all? We could go somewhere for a coffee.”  
  
Castiel shifted from foot to foot.  
  
“Why don’t you come to my apartment?”  
  
Castiel nearly looked around to check who had said that. Then he tilted his eyes up to Sam and tried to put on a smile that looked appropriately friendly.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam’s mouth lifted into a slightly astonished grin. “Yeah, that sounds good.” Castiel nodded a little dumbly.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, Castiel pulled into his apartment complex’s parking lot and peered into his rearview mirror as Sam’s car pulled into a free spot. He swallowed hard to try and get rid of the lump in his throat.  
  
“I’m upstairs,” Castiel informed Sam as they met at the back of his car. Sam was looking around at the pavement that desperately needed relaying and the trash piled in every corner. Castiel saw in his mind’s eye the deep grasses and flickering leaves of Dean’s property, the gorgeous brickwork and low ceilings.  
  
At the very least, Castiel decided when he opened his door; he generally kept a tidy apartment.  
  
“It’s nice,” Sam told him. Castiel’s first flash of thought was that Sam must be joking, but then he caught sight of the sheer genial expression on Sam’s face as he peered at mostly blank walls and furniture collected from relatives and Goodwill.  
  
“Can I get you anything?” Castiel asked. “Tea? Coffee?”  
  
“No, I’m fine,” Sam lowered himself into a worn leather armchair that used to sit in Castiel’s parent’s basement. He was still looking around the apartment as if to find a clue to…something. Castiel couldn’t imagine what.  
  
“So do you have any idea when you might hear back from the records office?” Castiel asked, toeing off his shoes.  
  
“You haven’t dealt with county records offices much have you?” Sam asked, not unkindly. “I’ve waited anywhere between a day to nearly a year.”  
  
“A  _year_?”  
  
“Well, that was back in Los Angeles. Somewhere like here? At most a week.”  
  
“I see,” Castiel nodded. He slowly lowered himself into the couch across from Sam’s armchair, deciding it would be best to get things over with. “What did you want to ask?”  
  
“Right,” Sam leaned forward, hands clasping between his knees. “You talk to Singenta employees,” he stated more than asked.  
  
Castiel’s mind buzzed blankly for a moment. “Oh,” he suddenly burst out. “Yes, I do.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And what?” Castiel asked evasively.  
  
“And what kinds of things do you ask them?”  
  
“I haven’t heard any reports of fluoride poisoning, if that’s what you’re asking.”  
  
And really, Castiel should have fully expected it when Sam asked, “What if I went with you next time?”  
  
Castiel rolled his lips in and flicked his eyes down to the red throw rug beneath his feet. He felt more than saw Sam straighten in his seat.  
  
“I’m not sure if…” he trailed off, then rallied himself with the firm reminder that  _someone_ had to make sure Sam didn’t do anything unwise. “Sam, are you sure you want to pursue this?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You do realize that you’re sneaking around? And considering the…your history, this would be too ideal a way for Michael or Raphael to accuse you of…subverting authority.”  
  
Sam released a long gust of a sigh.  
  
“Yeah,” he admitted. Several heartbeats of silence. “It’s not like I’m actually  _reporting_ anything, right?” he added. Castiel didn’t mention that that wasn’t quite the response he’d been looking for. “Look,” Sam continued, “I’ll just happen to show up at the Singenta plant at the same time as you and you can, y’know, convince people I’m worth talking to.”  
  
(Was this mindset how Sam had been pulled into Azazel’s—Castiel felt guilty even finishing that thought.)  
  
Castiel scrubbed at the side of his face with an open hand and didn’t say anything.  
  
“If you don’t want to help me, that’s fine,” Sam’s voice came out with an edge. “I’ll find sources some other way.”  
  
“They aren’t sources yet, this isn’t an actual story,” Castiel’s burst out, one hand gripping at the edge of the couch. “I understand that….that you’re frustrated with work and Michael, and that’s entirely understandable. But there have to be better ways to handle it than acting sneaky and reclusive, and you  _know_ that this will aggravate Michael and Raphael if they find out about it.”  
  
 _And if you leave, where will that leave me?_  
  
“Maybe it should be a story,” Sam bit out. “And if anyone in the Garrison cared more about reporting news than damn office politics, I wouldn’t be sneaking anything, would I?” A terrible silence, like the ringing in one’s ears after a thunderclap. Sam released a sigh, shifting in his seat. “I’m not really doing anything wrong, am I?” he asked in a quiet voice. “I know I screwed up before. I get that. But I’m  _trying._ I’m researching. I’m looking for the truth. That’s what a journalist is supposed to do.” Castiel didn’t dare answer. “So why should I be scared of my own editor for doing that? Why are  _you_  making me feel guilty for doing that?”  
  
“Because I…” Castiel felt his throat seize up. He pressed his thumb and pointer finger into his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said. He could feel Sam watching him, and reluctantly lifted his head. And here came the worst thing: behind the frustration, Castiel saw a light of understanding from Sam’s hazel eyes. Complete understanding. It made Castiel want to crawl under a rock.  
  
“Okay,” Sam looked away, and Castiel blinked, like someone coming indoors after standing too long in the sunlight. “Okay,” he repeated. “Sorry for making you uncomfortable. It wasn’t fair of me.” He stood, slowly. “I won’t involve you in this anymore, alright?”  
  
Castiel felt like he was in a dream; one of the horrible ones where he couldn’t speak or move or do anything quickly enough. Because he somehow let Sam walk away from the couch and collect his things and open and close the door and drive away, without Castiel saying a word.  
  
*****  
  
 **To:** Raphael Dusan  
 **From:** Michael Alef  
 **Subject:** Request  
  
Take a look at the internet history from computer #12  
  
  
 **To:** Michael Alef  
 **From:** Raphael Dusan  
 **Subject:** Re: Request  
  
Singenta. Interesting. Whose is this?  
  
  
 **To:** Raphael Dusan  
 **From:** Michael Alef  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: Request  
  
Whom do you think?  
  
*****  
  
The roof looked like it had been replaced, but the siding still bore scorch marks. Sam traced the fire’s black path as he shifted on the front stoop. The noon sun fell hot and heavy across his shoulders.  
  
Sam checked for the umpteenth time that he had his notes and a pen with him before he raised his hand to knock on the front door. Something burst into yapping on the other side.  
  
“Kit, down! Stop, down!” a boy’s voice echoed as if from down a hall. Kit faltered, as if unsure, then resumed yapping. Something shuffled on the other side before the door opened to reveal a boy with hair just flopping over his eyes.  
  
“Sorry,” he greeted, several fingers hooked around a terrier’s straining collar. “I’m gonna put him out back. Come on in.” Sam waited until the boy had scooped the wriggling terrier in both arms and carried him down the dim, cool hall. Kit stared at Sam over the boy’s shoulder, as if to be sure he wasn’t up to any funny business.  
  
Sam glanced at family photographs as he passed them and recognized the boy and his mother several times.  
  
“Take a seat,” the boy waved his hand at a table with three chairs when they emerged in what looked like a living room. He went to a sliding glass door and unceremoniously plopped Kit onto the patio just on the other side. “You take a breather,” he ordered the terrier. Kit, for his part, stared through the glass door, yapped forlornly a few times then wandered off to sniff at the yard.  
  
“Can I get you anything?” the boy asked. “Pop? Iced tea?”  
  
“Water is fine,” Sam nodded as he lowered himself at the table. The boy disappeared behind plastic sheeting that had been tacked up between the living room and, Sam guessed, what remained of the kitchen.  
  
“Don’t worry,” the boy said when he reemerged in a rustle of plastic. “This isn’t from the bathroom. We got running water in the kitchen last week.”  
  
“I’ve drank from worse,” Sam accepted the glass, and the boy grinned in appreciation.  
  
“So,” he seated himself with a can of Sprite across from Sam. “Sam Winchester, like the gun?”  
  
“Like the gun,” Sam agreed. “And Pond like in “Doctor Who?””  
  
“I definitely haven’t heard that one,” Jacob gave a small eye roll. Sam smiled in reply as he flipped open his notebook and looked down at pages and pages of cramped notes on Singenta.  
  
 _You_ know _this will aggravate Michael and Raphael if they—_  
  
Sam flipped to a fresh page.  
  
“I want to thank you and your mom again for letting me come talk to you,” Sam looked up to Jacob. “This um…well it’s not really a story yet”— _They aren’t sources yet, this isn’t an actual story_ —“I’m still exploring the topic.”  
  
“Yeah, you said that on the phone,” Jacob popped the can open. “But no problem, we don’t do much on Sundays.” He took a swig from the can, then used it to gesture to the ceiling. “Mom’ll be down in a minute, I think she’s still doing her make-up.” Jacob lowered his voice. “I think she’s still embarrassed that the one time she shows up in the newspaper, she’s in her house clothes and passed out.” Sam chuckled appreciatively.  
  
Amy did join them five minutes later, looking much less passed out than before. She shook Sam’s hand graciously.  
  
“I kept a clipping of your article,” she told him as she sat at the table. “Something to show the grandkids, right? The day grandma’s house nearly burned down—oh, Kit, really, stop it.” Kit had resumed his verbal abuse. “Jacob, go throw the ball around with him will you? Or better yet, take him on a walk, he hasn’t been today.” Jacob did so with obvious reluctance, glancing back at Sam and Amy as he stepped into the backyard.  
  
“Watch him wander back in here in five minutes,” Amy said wryly before turning back to Sam. “Anyway, fire away.”  
  
“Right,” Sam looked back down at his blank notebook. He really should have scribbled down some questions, he reflected. He decided to jump in with both feet. “When I talked to Jacob a few weeks ago, he mentioned you hadn’t been feeling well.”  
  
“Yeah, but that had been going on for, oh, close to two months.”  
  
“Really? And what were you experiencing?”  
  
“Still experiencing,” Amy’s voice dropped in pitch, and she leaned forward on folded arms. “The worst one is the coughing. Lozenges, syrups. It doesn’t help.”  
  
“What else?”  
  
“Sore throat. Stiff joints, sometimes I get rashes.”  
  
“Got it,” Sam began scribbling away furiously.  
  
Sam could feel Amy’s wariness in the beginning, answering in short sentences and without detail. But within ten minutes, she began explaining herself more, and Sam relaxed knowing they had crossed from a Q & A session to an actual conversation.  
  
They had moved on to Amy’s actual working conditions in Singenta when Jacob rejoined them, a second Sprite can in hand. He seated himself at the table and listened as his mother spoke.  
  
“It’s pretty dusty, yeah,” she was saying. “Not quite so bad that it makes you cough or anything, but sometimes when I come home I can still…still taste it on the roof of my mouth, even with the masks we wear. A sort of chemical taste?”  
  
“Really? Has it always been like that?”  
  
“Well,” Amy said the word in a sigh. “I’ve been working there for four years now. I feel like it’s been worse the last few months. These days, you can see a haze at the very top of the room. I don’t think it used to be like that.” She watched Sam take notes with sharp eyes. Amy Pond, Sam had quickly realized, was far from stupid. She’d be asking soon what exactly Sam was getting at with these questions, if she hadn’t already guessed.  
  
And indeed, as the interview neared an hour, Sam asked, “Have you heard from any of your coworkers about safety concerns in the plant? Or have you had any of your own?” A deeply ironic smile twisted Amy’s mouth.  
  
“You’re talking about the fluoride poisoning? Or the phosphate dust?”  
  
Oh. So she hadn’t guessed. She’d  _known._  
  
“Either or,” Sam said. Amy leaned back in her chair as Jacob watched his mother with rapt attention.  
  
“I’ve looked up my symptoms,” Amy said. “The doctor’s visit wasn’t in our budget, so it was Web M.D., and with enough research you start to put two and two together. Do I have chronic fluoride poisoning? Probably. Is there really a way to treat it? Stop breathing in that dust, most likely. But that’s not happening anytime soon.”  
  
Sam had stopped writing.  
  
“Once in a while you hear people talk about the danger,” Amy continued, and her words came quicker. “I think someone’s discussed a class action lawsuit, but there hasn’t been enough human damage for that, I think. Maybe in a while there will be, but not right now. I don’t think any of us are part of a union. The most I see happening is someone filing a formal complaint to management, but who knows if that’ll change anything?” Amy’s eyes had lowered to the table. “To be honest, this is the first time I’ve discussed this so…in-depth. I think most of us are still ignoring it at this point.”  
  
Sam found his eyes slipping over to Jacob, whose mouth was hanging ever so slightly open. He wondered why Amy let him sit there while she discussed these things, then wondered if this was the best way she could tell him.  
  
“Do any of your coworkers have symptoms that might be fluoride poisoning?” Sam asked.  
  
“You know, I don’t know. As I said, we aren’t really at the point of talking about it,” Amy lifted her eyes. “But maybe they do.” Sam tapped his pencil against the table for a moment.  
  
“How about anyone else working at Singenta who might talk to me?”  
  
“A few people,” Amy said slowly and then rattled off a list of about five names. Sam copied them down carefully, circled the list, and added a star for good measure.  
  
“If you don’t mind me asking,” he said, gesturing toward the ruined kitchen, “would you say this fire was an indirect result of—possibly—fluoride poisoning? Of dangerous working conditions? I mean, the fatigue led to that nap, right?” Amy looked at the kitchen as well, and when she turned back to Sam, she looked very tired indeed.  
  
“Sure,” she said. “I suppose it is.”  
  
“What do you think of that?”  
  
Amy shook her head, lips coming together to form a thin slash across her face.  
  
“You know, I feel like I should be telling you that it makes me mad, that I want to take down the big bad corporation and get my dues. But, for God’s sake, do you really think I have the time or energy to do something like that? I’m thinking about the next payment on the mortgage and how we’re going to pay for the new kitchen and the bills and the car that needs to go into the shop again. I need that income.” She paused, and Sam watched her fingers curl in on themselves on the table. “It just makes me feel tired.”  
  
They sat in dead silence after that, until Kit began whining and barking at the door again.  
  
“Let him in, will you?” Amy asked Jacob. It was as if her words had broken some kind of spell, and Sam realized that the interview was over.  
  
“Thank you again for your time,” Sam said a few minutes later at the doorway, Kit’s barks echoing down the hall. “I appreciate it.”  
  
“Well, you know,” Amy looked half embarrassed, hugging herself as she glanced down the hall. “I think that was therapeutic for me. Spilling my guts to a stranger.”  
  
“I’ll tell you a secret,” Sam confided. “That’s half the reason most people are willing to talk to journalists at all.” Amy’s mouth braided into a smile, a real one, one that lightened her eyes. Sam realized then that Amy Pond was a rather beautiful woman.  
  
Sam wanted to ask her if Jacob would be all right, but then he decided that was overstepping his bounds. Instead he checked that Amy had his number, promised to let her know if things progressed, then thanked her again and stepped into the golden afternoon sunlight.  
  
When he slipped into his car, Sam tossed his notebook into the passenger seat and did not immediately start the engine. Instead he stared at the steering wheel while listening to his lungs pull in oxygen, expel carbon dioxide. Then he buried his face in his hands, leaned against the steering wheel, and pursed his lips to breathe out a sigh that turned into a low, guttural groan.


	8. Chapter 8

 

> _“Objective journalism and an opinion column are about as similar as the Bible and Playboy magazine.”_  
>  _\- Walter Cronkite_

 

 **The New Eldritch Herald – Monday, July 28, 2013**  
  
 **Results of budget meeting unclear**  
By Victor Henriksen – Prolonged discussion of budget allotment for new roads resulted in a second session scheduled for next Saturday.  
  
 **Local man charged for possession of child pornography**  
By Rufus Turner – Police found more than 15,000 images of pornography on the computer of Patrick S . Bauer, 67.  
  
 **New lacrosse coach brings some surprising changes**  
By Hester Gutowski – Olivia Hayes, the new coach for the women’s lacrosse team at Franklin College, has introduced some controversial new practices.  
  
 **OPINION** :  **Life is too short to stress**  
By Gabe Lokey – Local government inept? Neighbor turns out to have child pornography? Hating your lacrosse coach? 10 ways to stop sweating the small stuff. And the big stuff too.  
…  
…  
  
 **To:** Gabe Lokey  
 **From:** Michael Alef  
 **Subject:** \--  
  
Gabe,  
  
I’m not sure how you managed that one, but touché.  
  
Michael Alef  
Editor-in-Chief  
  
  
 **To:** Michael Alef  
 **From:** Gabe Lokey  
 **Subject:** Re: --  
  
Which one are you talking about? :D  
Have I made you nervous? :P  
  
Gabe  
  
*****  
  
Sam, quite literally, dragged himself into work the next morning. Dean noticed something was wrong as soon as Sam didn’t respond to some smartass comment Dean made (most likely about Sam’s hair). He’d then gone mother hen in the most unsubtle way possible.  
  
“Want me to drive you to work?”  
  
“You don’t start your shift ‘til tonight, Dean.”  
  
“Yeah, but I can still drive you to work.”  
  
“Why would you do that?”  
  
“’Cause I feel like it.”  
  
“No, I don’t want you driving me to work.”  
  
“But what if I want to?”  
  
“God. Fine. Drive me to work.”  
  
And so on.  
  
The end result was Sam coming into work with the deep conviction that he’d pissed someone off Upstairs. And normally, he’d have wandered over to the photography desk to listen to Jo tease Castiel or Castiel complain about someone’s work, but as it happened, Castiel was angry at Sam for…corrupting him or something, Sam wasn’t entirely sure. And he didn’t want to think about it either.  
  
Sam all but collapsed at his desk and stared moodily at the black screen. He wondered if Dean would actually remember to pick him up that afternoon. He wondered if Castiel would join him for lunch today. He wondered if Michael would ever get over the fact that Sam used to work under Lucian.  
  
Sam finally woke his computer up with a twitch of the mouse and opened Google news to check for new articles about Singenta, as had become his habit the last few days. (That and researching respiratory diseases.) Only as he typed Singenta’s name into the search bar, he received a string of nonsense. Sam blinked at his screen, then backspaced and tried again. More nonsense.  
  
Sam squinted down at his keyboard, wondering if something had broken. He was about to type out ‘Singenta’ very carefully, in chicken pecks if necessary, when he paused. The ‘S’ key was wrong. As in, it was a ‘Y.’ And in the spot where the ‘A’ key would reside, he found a ‘B.’  
  
Backing his head up very carefully, Sam scanned the entire keyboard to find that every letter was in the wrong spot. He then cut his scrutiny to Ruby’s keyboard and found the same problem, though her letters were in different spots than his.  
  
Sam then lifted his head just in time to meet Victor’s eyes over the tops of their computers.  
  
“Is your keyboard…?” Victor trailed off.  
  
“Yes,” Sam glanced down again. “Yes it is.” He and Victor stared at one another for another few heartbeats before both of them collapsed into very unmanly giggles.  
  
“S-someone spelled out ‘problem’ on mine,” Victor managed, lifting his keyboard so Sam could see.  
  
“Really?” Sam squinted, then eagerly looked over his own keyboard. “Oh, yeah, I got ‘joke.’” Around them, Sam could hear other people exclaiming and swearing, which meant the prankster had somehow gotten all thirty some keyboards. Sam counted himself impressed.  
  
“Oh, this has Gabe written all over it,” Victor shook his head, his face nearly split by his grin. “I wonder how long it took.”  
  
“Bet he had help,” Sam guessed.  
  
“Here comes Garth, don’t say anything,” Victor made a shushing motion with his hands, and Sam obediently stared hard at his screen as if reading something of deep importance. It took Garth nearly ten minutes to notice the incongruence, but when he did, he immediately took pictures of his keyboard (which not only had ‘OMG’ but ‘what’ hidden in it) and posted them on Twitter.  
  
And by the time Ruby had sworn like a sailor at her screen for giving her gibberish and Rufus had howled with laughter and Raphael had come out to announce that the keys could be put in their correct order easily enough, please do so and get to work, and by the time Gabe had emerged from his office to give several bows and receive airborne wadded pieces of paper and rubber erasers, Sam had nearly forgotten why he’d been so frustrated.  
  
Not that the good mood lasted forever. But at least the dark cloud of frustration waited until the end of the week to return. Until then, Sam found himself pleasantly surprised by Castiel’s continued presence at lunch in the printing press. Perhaps the man was a bit more stiff than usual, but at least he didn’t look at Sam like he’d just grown a pair of horns.  
  
Sam decided it was enough, even if he missed the old way they used to interact. (And wasn’t it funny that he was thinking in terms of “old” and “used to” when they’d literally known each other for three weeks. That was a little bit terrifying so Sam didn’t examine it too closely.)  
  
Instead, he kept plugging through his briefs, continued to research Singenta, and tried not to think too hard about Jacob Pond’s pinched face as he’d listened to his mother say, “It just makes me feel tired.”  
  
Sam had tried reaching out to the five people Amy had listed for him, but three of them didn’t show up in the white pages and the other two never called back. Sam stopped leaving voice messages after three tries. There was a line, after all, between determined journalism and harassment.  
  
And perhaps Sam would have dropped the whole Singenta thing were it not for an automated email he received on Thursday. It told him that the Fremont County Records Office had found one (1) result that may match his request. It was better than the zero (0) Sam had been expecting, but it didn’t fill Sam with confidence either.  
  
In any case, he decided to skip out early that day to drive down to the courthouse. The woman in charge of the records handed it over with a polite reminder that Sam could not take the document out of the room, and that he had until closing time to read it, unless he wished to come in again the next day.  
  
So with forty-five minutes to spare, Sam settled himself at an ancient desk and chair and examined a court record from seven years ago. It looked like a Peter Alpha had sued Singenta for—and here Sam’s heart leapt to the back of his throat—serious health problems after working in the fertilizer plant for three years.  
  
When Sam found the term ‘fluoride dust,’ he nearly jumped up and punched the air. The next thing he wanted to do was to call someone and garble excitedly for a while, but then he realized he had no one. Castiel had already made his disinterest in the matter clear, and Sam was absolutely not involving Dean in all this, for a number of very good reasons that Sam refused to examine too closely.  
  
Instead, Sam skimmed through the rest of the case—Peter had won a pithy amount, he noted—taking furious notes as the clock ticked nearer and nearer to 5 p.m.  By the time the woman asked him to return the document, Sam could feel a familiar fire in his belly that warmed him to no end.  
  
He was already writing his pitch in his head.  
  
*****  
  
 **New Eldritch Herald – Friday, August 2, 2013**  
  
 **Tornado destroys over 30 houses, kills four**  
By Victor Henriksen – A tornado swept through eastern Fremont County on Thursday night, causing major damage.  
Photos by Jo Harvelle  
  
 **Farmers Market moves to larger venue**  
By Rachel Fischer – The market will move to the property behind the Activity and Recreation Center after growing too large for the St. Joseph Catholic Church parking lot.  
 **…**  
 **…**  
  
 **To:** Michael Alef  
 **From:** Raphael Dusan  
 **Subject:** \--  
  
Did you see his request to the county records office?  And the email to Novak?  
  
Raphael  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Anna Milton  
 **Subject:** Newsroom blog  
  
Hi everyone,  
  
Just wanted to say thanks to everyone who’s been writing their blogs, they look great. Check it out!   
  
Anna  
  
P.S. – These blogs are not a place to vent about how annoying you find your colleagues, sorry. There’s a water cooler for that.  
  
  
 **To:** Raphael Dusan  
 **From:** Michael Alef  
 **Subject:** Re: --  
  
Wait until he makes his own move.  
  
Michael Alef  
Editor-in-Chief  
  
*****  
  
When Castiel emerged from the Powell County courthouse, he had no desire to return to the newsroom. No desire to stare at a screen for another few hours, no desire to feel fluorescent lights beat down on his skin and no desire to feel the weight in the pit of his stomach every time he happened to glance in Sam’s direction.  
  
So Castiel pointed his car to the north and drove well over the speed limit for fifteen minutes, the window open and his tie whipping over his shoulder. He’d reached the county border before he slowed enough for the trees to become individual shapes again.  
  
It was, he reflected as he puttered alongside soybean fields, really far too nice a day for office work. This was one of those glorious, late summer days where he should be using up three SD cards and letting the click of his camera ring in his ears so much he could still hear it when he fell asleep that night.  
  
Castiel slowed and finally pulled over on the side of the road. After a moment of consideration, he shut off the engine and listened to the other sounds that his car had been masking. A raven hacking somewhere in the distance. The wind shushing through the soybean leaves. Some indistinguishable noise that belonged to many small things moving and eating and otherwise living their untroubled lives.  
  
 _I should take pictures_ , Castiel found himself thinking but continued to sit right where he was. He didn’t even think he’d brought a camera, beside the one full of courthouse pictures sitting in his passenger seat.  
  
Castiel twisted around in his seat and felt himself relax when he found his third-best camera tangled with a jacket and an empty Doritos bag. He pulled it to the front seat and turned it on, only to find that this SD card was nearly full as well. When Castiel pulled up the card’s saved photos, he realized that he hadn’t touched this camera for weeks. The most recent batch was from the wine story he’d done with Balthazar over a month ago. He studied a very decent image of sunlight filtering through a vine leaf then deleted it. The next one showed a basic landscape image of the vineyard. He deleted that too. He kept going, spending less and less time analyzing each photo.  
  
The wind whistled through his open window, bringing in the scent of earth and wildflowers, as Castiel moved past the winery assignment, through several Saturday’s worth of shots, and blew through a client’s wedding photos. And then he paused to squint at a blurry image of a bird.  
  
A goshawk, he realized a moment later. Castiel went forward several more photos, finding more poor pictures. He remembered that morning, he decided after a moment. There had been a black car going too fast and—  
  
Castiel paused. On the little screen before him, the goshawk glistened in the morning light, perfectly captured in mid-flight, each feather crisp and clear against a pale blue sky. It was…well, he could probably send it into any photography competition.  
  
Castiel’s pocket buzzed.  
  
It took Castiel a moment to process the buzzing as his cell phone, and after that he was sorely tempted to ignore it. But after two rings, he set down his camera and fished it out, expecting to see Jo’s or Anna’s name.  
  
It was Sam. Castiel abruptly felt his heart leap into his throat, and the reaction sent him into such a pique of annoyance that he tossed the cell phone on the passenger seat and glared at it as it rang another three times. It went to voicemail, and Castiel stared out the window, arms crossed on the steering wheel. The phone vibrated one last time to indicate a voicemail had finished recording.  
  
After nearly ten minutes, Castiel slowly turned the key in the ignition and pulled onto the road.  
  
Castiel returned to the newsroom to find it mostly empty, so he allowed himself to slump in his seat while he went over his mental checklist. He still needed to look through his photos from the library construction story and then follow up with Balthazar to make sure he used the right pictures and—  
  
“Novak?” Castiel lifted his eyes to find Michael standing over his desk. He straightened.  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“Glad I caught you. Do you have a minute?” Castiel blinked for a moment at Michael before he nodded.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Excellent. My office please?”  
  
Before Castiel could properly nod again, Michael had turned and was gliding back toward the far wall with its row of offices. Castiel rubbed at his face, stood slowly and trudged after him.  
  
He found Michael standing at the far end of his desk peering at his iPhone through reading glasses. Castiel sat in a chair across from Michael’s seat, folded his hands in his lap, and told himself firmly that his stomach had no reason to be flip-flopping.  
  
“How’s the court house going?” Michael asked, still not looking up completely up as he seated himself.  
  
“Very well,” Castiel replied. “I have the final product nearly ready to go.”  
  
“Excellent, excellent,” Michael murmured, finally setting down his iPhone. He set aside his reading glasses and looked at Castiel with eyes just as piercing as Castiel recalled.  
  
“I know you probably want to get home so I’ll make this brief,” he said. “We received a pitch for an article today.” Castiel shifted in his seat, tempted to ask why on earth Michael had called him in about an article. Perhaps he wanted to discuss photos for it. “It’s an interesting one,” Michael continued, picking up a yellow legal notepad, “concerning the Singenta plant.”  
  
“What about the plant?” Castiel asked as his stomach made a very decisive flop.  
  
“Concerns about workers’ health,” Michael peered at his notepad. “Something about fluoride poisoning.” He set the notepad down completely and folded his hands lightly on top of it. “Any thoughts?”  
  
Castiel spent a minute trying not to look like he was mentally scrambling.  
  
“Well, if it’s a problem in the community then someone ought to report on it,” Castiel said. “Might be difficult, I can’t imagine that Singenta will be eager to discuss it, but it has potential.”  
  
 _Hypocritical piece of shit_ , an Anna-sounding voice echoed through Castiel’s mind.  
  
“Mm,” Michael murmured. His eyes flicked over Castiel, as if searching for something. “Those are good points, Novak. But I’m afraid that I told Zachariah to turn it down.”  
  
“Oh,” Castiel bobbed his head. He waited, then went ahead and asked, “Why?”  
  
“While the idea is intriguing,” Michael said around a long sigh, “there’s simply not enough evidence to merit us kicking up a panic. A woman with a stiff back and a lawsuit several years ago? Sketchy at best. Media must be wary of its own power; we must not make a problem where there is none.”  
  
Castiel pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth, hard enough to elicit a prick of pain.  
  
“What if you let someone investigate the issue further, before you dismiss it?”  
  
“Oh, but it looks like someone already has made many preliminary inquiries,” Michael glanced down at his notebook again. “A whole interview and several hours of research, it looks like.”  
  
And perhaps it was in the way Michael flicked his eyes up to Castiel, or the way the corner of his mouth twitched, or perhaps Castiel had known it all along, but it was then that he fully realized why he was in this office. Michael saw it.  
  
“Castiel,” Michael said, and somehow ‘Castiel’ sounded much more frightening in Michael’s mouth than ‘Novak’ had. As if ‘Novak’ were a name designed to be handled and dirtied by many different people, but ‘Castiel’ only belonged to the people who would treat it kindly. “You’re friendly with Sam Winchester.” It came as a statement of fact rather than a question.  
  
“We’ve worked together,” Castiel replied.  
  
“Yes, the house fire,” Michael’s eyebrows ticked upwards. “Which happens to involve the same woman he interviewed for this.”  
  
Translation: Don’t think  _you’re_  innocent in all this.  
  
 “But I digress. You’re friendly with the boy.” Also a statement of fact.  
  
“I suppose.”  
  
“You see, I need to let him know that pursuing…extraneous subjects isn’t what we pay him for. If he wishes to use his own free time to look into these things, then by all means that’s his decision. But while using newsroom computers and time, he needs to be doing newsroom work. I’d like to consider this his…second strike, after the fire story.”  
  
“Of course,” Castiel managed. “Though I’m confused why you’re telling me this.”  
  
“I only thought,” Michael spread his hands as if in benediction, “that it would be better to hear it from a friendlier face. Certainly no one likes a scolding from their own editor. But you’re more neutral ground, aren’t you? Perhaps you would be able to phrase it in a way Winchester would understand.”  
  
Castiel felt rooted to the spot. Was this a test? Some test of Castiel’s loyalty? Had he ever heard of Michael doing this before?  
  
“If you feel uncomfortable,” Michael continued, “I can let Zachariah handle him. Or I can do it myself. But I wanted to extend the offer since you two seem…closely acquainted.”  
  
Castiel imagined Sam standing in front of this desk, being scolded like a child, followed by shouting something in pure anger and frustration, maybe even reaching out to knock something over. Then Castiel imagined himself knocking something over, roaring at Michael,  _Why are you acting like this? Why are you dragging all of us into whatever you and Lucian created?_  
  
“Hey, Mikey!”  
  
Castiel watched Michael’s face undergo an impressive transformation from coolly inquisitive to all-out annoyed to quietly restrained within three seconds.  
  
“Gabe?” he replied. Castiel turned around to find the opinions editor hanging off the doorknob.  
  
“Oh, sorry, you guys busy?” Gabe stepped back slightly, eyes far too bright.  
  
“No. What?”  
  
“Um, there’s an issue with the shared file? I think we lost Tessa’s obituary and Bela’s review of that new restaurant.”  
  
“What?” Michael stood and rounded the desk. “When?”  
  
“Five minutes ago,” Gabe replied.  
  
“Sir, I’ll tell him,” Castiel piped up. Michael looked at him but Castiel could tell that he’d already slid down to second importance.  
  
“Good man,” Michael waved vaguely at Castiel. “Sorry, I’m going to have to—“  
  
“No worries, sir,” Castiel said graciously.  
  
Michael nodded and moved past Gabe in a susurrus of dialogue. “That’s the third time this month too. What the hell is Charlie doing…?” His voice trailed off as he disappeared down the hall.  
  
Castiel met Gabe’s eyes, and the expression Castiel found there looked so knowing that he wanted to thank him. But then Gabe had followed Michael, and Castiel was left to sit in the office, veins practically singing with the adrenaline.  
  
*****  
  
 **To:** Michael Alef  
 **From:** Raphael Dusan  
 **Subject:** Sam  
  
Well?  
  
  
 **To:** Raphael Dusan  
 **From:** Michael Alef  
 **Subject:** Re: Sam  
  
Still waiting. I want to see what Novak does.  
  
  
 **To:** Michael Alef  
 **From:** Raphael Dusan  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: Sam  
  
Why? Because you’re curious?  
We should get rid of Winchester now.  
  
  
 **To:** Raphael Dusan  
 **From:** Michael Alef  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Sam  
  
Because I’m tired of wondering where Novak stands.  
And we’re not firing Winchester.  
  
  
 **To:** Michael Alef  
 **From:** Raphael Dusan  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Re: Sam  
  
You’re a bleeding heart, Michael. About all of this.  
  
  
 **To:** Raphael Dusan  
 **From:** Michael Alef  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Sam  
  
I’m going to ignore that.  
  
*****  
  
 _“You have_ one _saved message.”_  
  
“ _Hey Cas.”_ Something shuffled in the background. “ _Um, just wanted to talk. Not that important just wanted to…talk. Look, some shitty stuff happened, but nothing really serious I…call me back whenever.”_  
  
 _“End of message.”_  
  
Castiel jabbed the call button.  
  
“ _You’ve reached Sam Winchester,”—“Fuck_ , Sam!”—“I’m busy or away from the phone right now. Leave a name, number and message and I’ll get back to you soon as possible.  _Beep_ ”  
  
“Sam,” Castiel burst out. He thought wildly for a moment. “I’m sorry about…please call me back.”  
  
 _“Beep.”_  
  
Rain began to spatter against the windshield.  
  
*****  
  
Castiel wiped his hands on his pants for the third time in the last five minutes. From somewhere across the hall, a bass thumped through paper-thin walls. Cas pressed the doorbell again.  
  
“Yeah yeah!” a female voice shouted over the bass, and a moment later the door swung open to reveal Anna in a Green Day t-shirt and running shorts. “Hey you,” she grinned a little too broadly and leaned against the doorframe. “Can’t say I’ve seen you here in forever.”  
  
“Yes. Well.” Castiel shifted on his feet and balled his hands where they were jammed into his coat pockets.  
  
“Is that Cas?” Jo’s voice drifted from somewhere inside the apartment.  
  
“The one and only,” Anna backed up to let Castiel inside. “He’s decided to grace us with his presence this evening.” Castiel scowled at her as she led him down a small hallway and into a comfortably sized living room.  
  
There they found Jo, Charlie and Kevin sitting around a tripod with a video recorder perched on top. A cord ran down to a laptop sitting in Kevin’s lap.  
  
“Cas! Welcome to the Video Partyyy,” Jo lowered her voice and shook stiff arms above her head. Castiel blinked at her, then shifted his eyes to the half-full bottle of Budweiser at her elbow.  
  
“Hey Castiel,” Kevin said, the surprise obvious in his voice. “What’re you here for?”  
  
“I wanted to see how the project was going,” Castiel said in what he was sure must be the most see-through lie possible. And yes, there was that expression on Anna’s face.  
  
But what was he supposed to say? That he was still far too full of adrenaline to go home to an empty apartment? That he found that he wanted the chatter that came with these people? (That Sam hadn’t picked up his phone after four tries?)  
  
“Really?” Jo’s face lit up. “You want to see how we do it?” Castiel felt his mouth relax into a small smile despite himself.  
  
For the next half hour, Castiel found himself the recipient of a crash course lesson in videography, Jo explaining everything with lots of gesturing and a slightly breathless voice. Kevin, Charlie and Anna chimed in just enough to show that they also had adopted the project as their own, and Castiel reflected on the fact that he hadn’t seen this much enthusiasm in one room since his college days.  
  
Michael slowly retreated to the corner of his mind, where he brooded menacingly.  
  
“We made a mock TV brief, you already saw that,” Jo was explaining, scrolling through hundreds of stills on Kevin’s laptop. “And now we’re going to tackle a real video. With actual interviews and things. We’re aiming for about three minutes, but we haven’t decided on the topic yet.”  
  
“I still vote for that new comic book store,” Charlie raised her hand from where she was slouched in one of Anna’s couches, phone a few inches from her face. Castiel guessed Gilda.  
  
“We have that, the Farmers Market, profiling the lady who runs that one bakery,” Kevin ticked off. “We want to try and show this to the Garrison, as a pitch for making videos a permanent part of the newspaper, y’know? So it has to be right.”  
  
Looking at Jo, Charlie and Kevin’s faces, Castiel found he didn’t have the heart to say anything other than, “I’m sure it will be very impressive work.”  
  
Behind him, he could hear Anna sit up from where she’d been perched next to Charlie.  
  
“Tea?” she asked brightly. “I was going to get a kettle going.”  
  
“I’ll have some,” Castiel nodded, and followed Anna into the kitchen as conversation fell back into possible video topic behind him.  
  
“Get some mugs?” Anna suggested as she filled an enamel green tea kettle at the sink. Castiel found Anna’s cupboard, pulled out a plain brown mug, then paused and reached up to grab a chipped mug featuring a dog in a traditional reporter’s hat. He had a sneaking suspicion that he’d seen it before.  
  
“You gave this to me,” Anna appeared at Castiel’s shoulder. “For my first year anniversary working at the newspaper.”  
  
“I thought it was something like that,” Castiel lied. He handed the mugs off to Anna and tried to ignore the look she kept giving him.  
  
“So what happened?” her voice came out low enough to stay in the kitchen. Castiel looked away, like a child hoping to escape a scolding. “Cas—“  
  
“Nothing. Michael called me into his office.” He blinked hard. “I think he was threatening me.”  
  
And somehow, as the kettle got louder and louder, Castiel found himself speaking. About his and Sam’s revelation about Michael and Lucian, the Singenta story, the events of that afternoon in Michael’s office.  
  
“I have no idea how he knew I had anything to do with the article,” Castiel said, almost into his hands. “It’s disconcerting.”  
  
“I’d feel that way too,” Anna offered. “But to be fair, I’ve told you that Michael’s kind of a dick.”  
  
“Not helpful,” Castiel ground out.  
  
“No, you’re right. Sorry. Here, still want that tea? I have lemon. Chamomile.”  
  
“Earl Grey?”  
  
“Coming right up,” Anna popped open a cardboard box and pulled out a tea bag, dipping it up and down in the mug a few times before letting the string drape over the edge of the mug. She put a little plate on top of the mug to let the tea steep and then turned to mirror Castiel’s position.  
  
“What do you want to do?” she asked, tilting her head. Castiel watched her hair contrast with the deep blues of her kitchen. If he wanted to produce a profile picture of Anna, he thought, this would be it. A splash of hot color in a world of cool blues and whites.  
  
“Do?” Castiel replied. “What on earth would I do? Tell Sam what Michael told me I suppose? Hope he—what?” Anna’s face had developed a very peculiar expression.  
  
“I think I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen you this shaken up,” Anna said. “You thought better of Michael, didn’t you?”  
  
Castiel rubbed at his upper arms in two slow movements.  
  
“I’ve seen him do great things with this newspaper,” he admitted. “When I realized how he was treating Sam…I thought it was just an odd confluence of situations. But this is—this crosses the line.” He released a low huff of rueful laughter. “I suppose now you can say you told me so.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Aren’t you the one who calls me the good little foot soldier?”  
  
“Oh, that.” Anna tilted back her head to grin at the spackled ceiling. “Cas, you shouldn’t take the things I say so seriously.” She looked at Castiel properly, one pale hand coming up to distractedly play at her hair. “But you know, it’s not like you don’t have your rebellious streak.”  
  
“It’s not?”  
  
“How many times do you sneak out of the press box?” Anna asked. “Or argue with Michael or Raphael that this one picture is the perfect one to use? Or butt in on peoples’ lives just because you think they have a story? That’s why you’re such a good photojournalist, by the way,” she added as Castiel grimaced.  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“It is,” Anna confirmed, checking the tea. She pulled off the plate and handed the mug to Castiel. He accepted it, letting the steam condense on his face. It helped soothe over the hard, poky feeling in the middle of his chest.  
  
“You’ve tried calling Sam?” Anna asked.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“I can give Dean’s home phone a buzz,” Anna suggested. “Sometimes the cell reception at their house is iffy.”  
  
“No,” Castiel heard himself say. “I…I’ll wait until Sam calls.”  
  
“Alright,” Anna said after a long moment. They stood in silence together, each contemplating their tea as if to find answers in the steam.  
  
“Has your apartment become Jo’s studio then?” Castiel asked, for the sake of a new topic.  
  
“Ah, yeah, when it’s not Charlie’s place,” Anna laughed. “You’ve seen Jo on this video stuff, right? It’s like watching a virgin discover porn.”  
  
Castiel only choked on his tea a little.


	9. Chapter 9

 

> _“Many people would no more think of entering journalism than the sewage business—which at least does us all some good.”_  
>  _\- Stephen Fry_

 

Sam seriously considered not going home that evening, because surely Dean would see the thundercloud hanging over Sam’s head and then want to know what had happened and things would quickly spiral into dangerous lands that used to involve Steak ‘n Shake and low words of comfort and Sam couldn’t afford those luxuries anymore, he couldn’t.  
  
So instead he drove around New Eldritch in a heavy drizzle that never quite committed to becoming rain and ignored the periodic buzzing from his phone because at some point Dean needed to learn that Sam was an adult who’d been taking care of himself for the past eight years.  
  
It was entirely possible that Sam was losing it.  
  
And to think he’d been so hopeful earlier.  
  
He’d been an idiot, actually. A massive idiot, because how else was Zachariah going to respond to Sam Winchester pitching his own article idea? Especially after slipping into Michael’s office to consult him, that had been when Sam knew it was all over—  
  
Sam pressed his foot hard on the accelerator and just slipped through a yellow light before it turned red.  
  
Red lights fucking everywhere.  
  
At some point, the Roadhouse’s lit sign appeared through the misty darkness. Sam pulled into the driveway a moment later, swayed by memories of good food and good company.  
  
It was a Friday night, so the bar was hopping with activity. Sam managed to find an empty stool and flagged down the bartender.  
  
“What can I get you?” a young man with a mullet asked him, just shouting to be heard over the crowd.  
  
“Bud,” Sam called back. When the man came back a moment later with the beer, Sam added, “Is Ellen around tonight?”  
  
“Ah, she’s in the back. Pretty busy though. Want me to find her?”  
  
“No, no don’t bother her,” Sam shook his head.  
  
Usually, Dean was the one to drown himself in alcohol. But Sam didn’t see why he couldn’t claim that position once in a while. And so the next few hours got progressively fuzzier as Sam decided that beer wasn’t enough and moved nto the Jack Daniels.  
  
“You got someone to drive you home?” the bartender asked at some point past the fourth shot.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam lied. The man looked like he wanted to argue, but then a whole party of college students entered and he had to hasten to serve them.  
  
Sam’s pocket began buzzing again. Sam rattled his fingers on the counter, then uttered, “Fine, Dean,” and yanked his phone from his pocket.  
  
It was Castiel.  
  
Sam stared stupidly at the name for another few rings then abruptly recalled the voicemail he’d left in a fit of needing someone to properly vent to. The ringing stopped and went to voicemail.  
  
“No, wait!” Sam fumbled at the buttons until he managed to call Castiel. He jammed the phone against his ear and stared hard at the beers lined up behind the bar, hand clenching and unclenching.  
  
“—me again. Just needed to make sure—hang on…Sam?”  
  
“Hey Cas,” Sam said. He licked his lips. “S’rry, I thought y’were Dean.” A brief silence.  
  
“Sam, have you been drinking?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’re slurring very noticeably.”  
  
“Nooo…yes.”  
  
“Where are you?”  
  
“Roadhouse. ’m fine.”  
  
“I bet you don’t have a driver.”  
  
“I’m not that—“  
  
“Don’t. Stay there, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”  
  
“Y’re worse th’n Dean,” Sam grouched, hunching a little in his seat.  
  
“If you’re ignoring him tonight, then I’m willing to take on his role,” Castiel replied. A female voice echoed in the background, and Sam heard Castiel pull the phone away to answer. “Sam?” his voice rushed back into hearing.  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“You heard me? Don’t go anywhere, I’m heading out to the car now.”  
  
“Yeah dad,” Sam mumbled but then felt bad, because Castiel was nothing like John Winchester.  
  
“Maybe we should stay on the phone—“  
  
“Yeah no,” Sam rolled his eyes. “I promise t’keep my ass here.” He hung up before Castiel could protest.  
  
“Girlfriend?” a man asked at Sam’s elbow. Sam glanced over and caught an impression of beard and scruffy clothing.  
  
“Not quite,” he replied, and hunched his shoulders just a little bit more. The man shuffled away after a few minutes, leaving Sam to nurse his drink.  
  
True to his word, Castiel appeared at Sam’s side within fifteen minutes, smelling faintly of rain, damp fabric and tea. He sat himself in the barstool the bearded man had abandoned. He folded his hands on the bar, leaning forward to peer at Sam.  
  
“I’m not that f’r gone,” Sam told him, somehow at a loss for anything else to say. He tried to pick out Castiel’s expression, but the finer details got lost in the bar’s dimness and his own brain’s increasing fuzziness.  
  
“I didn’t want to take a chance,” Castiel said. Sam took another shot and averted his eyes. He listened to Castiel decline the bartender’s offer for a drink. Sam could not tell whether he was glad for Castiel’s presence or not.  
  
“Would you like to talk?” Castiel offered.  
  
“’bout what?”  
  
“Whatever happened today. You sounded fairly distressed in your voicemail.”  
  
“Nothin’ happened today,” Sam mumbled. He suddenly felt a deep wash of tiredness and loneliness and stale frustration that made him turn to look at Castiel properly.  
  
“C’n we go somewhere else?” he asked.  
  
“Should I take you home?”  
  
“No. Somewhere else.” Castiel looked pale and pinched, but he nodded and asked if Sam had paid his tab.  
  
They emerged from the Roadhouse to find that the rain had lightened so much it had stopped falling. Instead, the air was filled with misty droplets of water that moved with the wind whenever Sam waved up at them with a free hand. His other arm had draped across Castiel’s shoulders at some point between the bar and here.  
  
“I’m parked over here,” Castiel whispered from somewhere around his shoulder. It was a good voice. Sam trusted that voice. So he followed it and the body accompanying it toward a now-familiar gray Kia.  
  
The drive passed in a series of lurches and jumps for Sam. One moment he was twiddling with the radio and the next staring out the window and the next closing his eyes and tilting his head toward the ceiling. When the car slowed and finally stopped, Sam peered out the window to find more of the pressing darkness.  
  
“Where are we?” he asked.  
  
“Somewhere else,” Castiel replied. They emerged from the car with only minimal stumbling from Sam.  
  
He had been expecting Castiel’s apartment and so Sam had to stop short when he found a thick wall of forest. Castiel, who had rounded to his trunk, emerged with two flashlights and an umbrella. He closed the trunk with a slam, locked the car, then began walking toward the trees. He paused when he realized Sam wasn’t following. They watched each other in silence.  
  
“It’s only that,” Sam said, “this could be one of two situations. Either this’s a romance and you’re gonna to sweep me off my feet, or this’s a horror flick and you’re ‘bout to kill me an’ dump my body in the river. ‘t’s only too bad we don’t have a soundtrack, ‘cause then I’d be able to tell.”  
  
Castiel’s laugh came out so suddenly that Sam suspected he had surprised himself with it.  
  
“I promise not to do anything untoward,” Castiel said. “Either in the romantic or murderous sense.”  
  
“Well then.” Sam realized he was grinning, and started picking his way toward Castiel’s tan overcoat. The rain hadn’t gotten bad enough to make the ground muddy, merely squishy, so Sam managed all right in his work shoes.  
  
It turned out that a thin path snaked through the woods. Castiel’s flashlight bobbed over leaves shining with water and black tree trunks with moss growing on them like dustings of emerald. Sam followed Castiel well enough, until he tripped on a root and nearly face-planted onto the ground. After that, Castiel wordlessly placed Sam’s arm around his shoulder again and murmured things like “Look out, there’s a rock” every so often.  
  
They emerged into a clearing within ten minutes of walking. Even the misting had stopped and they were left with damp air and low-hanging clouds. Enough moonlight filtered through threadbare rainclouds for Sam to make out a cabin. Beyond, he caught a glimmer of water.  
  
“This yours?” he asked.  
  
“Not at all,” Castiel admitted. “But I know for a fact that the owners live on the other side of the country.”  
  
“So we’re trespassing.”  
  
“Yes we are.”  
  
“I’m sensing a pattern, Cas.”  
  
“That’s entirely possible.”  
  
“Serial trespasser. You act all professional but secretly, you’re a hardcore rule breaker.” Castiel remained silent.  
  
They picked their way toward the cabin, the structure coalescing into something with logs and the remains of a flowerbed next to the front door. Castiel opened it with a hard shove of his shoulder. The inside, from what Sam could tell, harkened back to a 1980s style trying to be rustic.  
  
“You come here often?” Sam asked as Castiel left him to find the light switch.  
  
“Once in a while,” Castiel’s voice drifted through the darkness. Something clicked, and pale yellow light flooded from a ceiling lamp. Sam squinted hard. “Sometimes when I want to be inside but don’t want to be anywhere public or my apartment.”  
  
Sam examined his seating options and chose a sagging couch with faded floral print. Castiel remained standing by the light switch, watching Sam with…Sam decided it was wariness.  
  
“We can leave whenever you’d like,” Castiel said. “You just said not home and my apartment is a depressing place.” Sam nodded, still watching Castiel closely.  
  
“Cas, you okay?”  
  
Castiel made some shred of sound that might have been the beginning of “Yes.” Then he scrubbed at his face and approached the couch on which Sam was slumped.  
  
“I…” he swallowed as he sat on the other side of the couch. “I’d like to apologize for my attitude regarding your work. It was wrong of me to dismiss you like that.”  
  
“Thanks,” Sam blinked. “If it makes you feel better, you were right.” Castiel lifted his head slightly. “I pitched the Singenta idea. Turned down cold.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“You do?”  
  
“Michael called me into his office this afternoon. He um,” Castiel passed his hand over his mouth, obviously reluctant to explain further. “We discussed your proposition.”  
  
Sam lowered his eyes and watched his thumb rub over the floral print.  
  
“I don’t think I’m surprised,” he heard himself say. “Bet he has access to our internet histories. Or secret cameras.” Castiel released a low huff of amusement. Sam kept rubbing at the couch, wondering if he would rub away his skin if he kept at it long enough.  
  
“Why did he not like it?” he asked. Castiel remained quiet. Sam glanced up. “C’mon, Cas, I’m not going to kill the messenger.”  
  
“He said there wasn’t enough evidence of an actual problem. Something about not causing a panic. Then he said that you, um, using newsroom resources to research the topic was not alright and that this was your second strike.”  
  
Something hot splashed across Sam’s mind. Like the remnants of a bad dream, he saw Amy Pond again, telling him how she’d wake up to wracking coughs, and couldn’t get back to sleep.  
  
“Y’know, where the hell does he get it?” Sam burst out. Castiel stared at him through the weak yellow light, like a child watching an angry parent. “Where the  _hell_  does he get the…the God complex to make calls like that? Not causing a panic, my ass, he just doesn’t like that one of us took some damn initiative instead of kow-towing to his every order. The fact that it was me was just was the icing on the cake.”  
  
Sam blinked, and the red cleared away from his vision long enough to see Castiel glancing away to the ground, mouth stuck at a smile-like angle. He caught Sam’s eye.  
  
“You sound like Lucian.” he explained. “Near the end, when he didn’t care who heard him.”  
  
“Yeah? Good. At this point, at least Lucian treated me better than Michael ever has.” But that gave him pause, because granted, Lucian had dealt with the Sam Winchester who predated the Rodriguez incident. That thought alone made most of Sam’s wrath evaporate, leaving a gray wash of tiredness.  
  
On the table, Sam’s phone lit up with Dean’s name once more. Sam turned his phone to silent and ignored Castiel’s eyes. The rain started up again, just loud enough to audibly spatter against the roof.  
  
“You know what it is?” Sam asked apropos of nothing. He felt more than saw Castiel straighten to listen. “It’s that…I got into journalism for a reason. Like, I know there’s corruption in the system. I know the major networks are a complete joke most of the time. And every time I told people I was studying journalism, I’d get the same ‘So you’re studying professional lying and unemployment,’ ‘Going to join those monkeys in suits, Sam?’ ‘You could have been a lawyer, newspapers are a dying breed, Sam.’”  
  
He didn’t add that Dean had never said these things. Dean had told Sam good job on finding what he loved. Dean had—  
  
“I got the same things,” Castiel said, voice brimming with grim humor. “Only I had the extra dollop of studying photography.”  
  
“Hear you there,” Sam cracked a smile, then let it drop from his face just as quickly. “But I kept with it because….because there was this one interview I had with a guy in the veteran’s hospital. And he’d gone through so much  _shit_ , Cas. Came back from Iraq with a busted leg and psychological damage and a shitty medical care system. No family to come back to. No real friends. And I was just this dumb undergrad wandering in there because I had an assignment for my news reporting class. Literally, this guy was one of the first people I saw, so I sat down next to him and asked if I could talk.  
  
“Next thing I know, I’ve been talking to him for three hours. At some point I just turned off the recorder because I wasn’t interviewing him anymore, I was…was a witness to his life. And I realized at some point that this guy was so damn desperate for someone to listen. Because he had an amazing story, and no one had bothered to listen before.”  
  
Sam had to close his mouth briefly, because his tongue was getting dry. He blinked at his knees. His vision was still swimming, but perhaps a little less so.  
  
“I’d heard the theories in Intro to Journalism, right? We’re supposed to be watchdogs and seekers of truth and the public voices for those who would be otherwise ignored. But that was the first time I  _got_  it. That literally every single person I meet has a worthy story to tell. And that if I talk to them the right way, I can help them share that story. And if I tell it the right way, other people will hear the story and we can all sort of…understand one another better. And I guess I still believe that’s possible.  
  
“And it makes me so angry that Michael can cut that whole process off.” He paused, then burst out, “and it makes me even angrier that he sort of has a right to kill this Singenta thing just because it’s associated with me because I’m…fuck, I’m damaged goods. I fucking screwed up. And that’s my own fault.”  
  
A thick fall of rainy silence.  
  
Sam huffed through a pained smile. “I sound self-deluded, don’t I?”  
  
He still wasn’t looking at Castiel, so he gave a start of surprise at a shuffle, followed by a warm weight at his side and an arm around his shoulder for the third time that night.  
  
“No,” Castiel’s voice came low and infinitely kind and close. “No, you’re not deluded at all, Sam Winchester. You sound hopeful.” Sam felt Castiel hesitate before warm, dry lips rested on his temple. Only briefly. “And you’re not damaged goods.”  
  
Castiel was wrong on that, but Sam let it slide.  
  
Maybe because Castiel had made that comment earlier about taking Dean’s place tonight. Mostly because the alcohol was still warbling through his system. But Sam let himself slump against Castiel, resting his head on the man’s shoulder and trying to leach some of the anxiety he’d been holding for the last few hours. The last few months.  
  
Castiel let him. And if this time last year, someone had told Sam he’d end up practically cuddling on a damp couch in an abandoned cabin in the middle of Kansas with another full grown man he’d known for roughly a month, Sam would have given them a very strange look indeed.  
  
But no one had told Sam anything of the sort, of course. So Sam let his lids droop shut. All too quickly, he’d fallen into a dreamless sleep.  
  
*****  
  
Sam woke up to watery sunlight.  
  
He shifted on what felt like a couch, which was normal, but a very damp, cloth-like couch, which was not normal. And he had an overcoat draped across him. Also not normal.  
  
He smelled coffee.  
  
Sam cracked his eyes open a bit more to find a Tim Horton’s bag a foot away from his face, right next to a paper coffee cup. Something shifted in Sam’s peripheral vision.  
  
“Good morning.”  
  
Sam groaned, then lifted his head and forced his eyes open enough to find Castiel curled up in an armchair across the coffee table. A battered paperback sat in his hands.  
  
“I didn’t know your coffee preferences, but I got black with the assumption you have a hangover,” Castiel explained. Sam maneuvered himself to a sit and was pleased to find himself sans-headache.  
  
“Actually, I think I’ll be good.” Sam reached for the coffee nonetheless. It was a little cool, making Sam wonder how long he’d been sleeping.  
  
“Do you…recall last night?” Castiel asked, setting the book aside.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam nodded slowly. “I told you I wasn’t that far gone, didn’t I?”  
  
“You did, but I’ve also had people swear to me that they’re sober before blacking out.”  
  
“Fair enough,” Sam shrugged, taking another sip of coffee. He set it back on the table, suddenly feeling embarrassed. “I’m really sorry man, I didn’t mean to pass out on you.”  
  
“You’re fine,” Castiel gave him a gentle look that was all indulgent humor. “I’ve slept here more than once.” Silence settled between them, but it wasn’t stiff or awkward. It felt like the silence between old friends.  
  
Sam shifted and pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time. He winced.  
  
“21 missed calls,” he said aloud, voice glum.  
  
“Who’s—oh, Dean,” Castiel uttered, and Sam’s eyes leapt up to him. The blue eyes were blown wide. “I should have called him. Let him know where you were. It didn’t even cross my mind.”  
  
“Not your job to enable his mother henning,” Sam muttered. He looked back down at his phone, weighing whether he wanted a chewing out now or later. He compromised by texting Dean,  _Not dead, be home in a bit. Stop worrying._  
  
“I can take you to your car now,” Castiel was standing.  
  
“Dean can wait,” Sam said. Castiel paused, head tilting.  
  
“I thought you two were speaking again?” he ventured.  
  
“What? Oh, yeah, that’s fine. It’s just now Dean’s going to ask what happened, and I’m a terrible liar when it comes to him.”  
  
“You can’t tell him?” Castiel asked, the hint of surprise audible.  
  
“I could,” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to.” His phone buzzed, and Sam glanced down to find Dean’s text. _Where are you?_ He must have guessed that calling wouldn’t do any good.  
  
 _At a friend’s house._  
  
Castiel had drifted into the armchair again. Sam could practically hear him wondering why Sam was being so evasive toward Dean, but too polite to ask.  
  
“It’s just a thing with Dean,” Sam took pity on him. “He…he tries to solve my problems for me. Used to do it all the time when we were kids and I don’t think he ever comprehended that at some point, the problems got bigger and more complicated than a bully at school or needing new shoes.”  
  
“You haven’t told him about Michael?”  
  
“Well he knows the Garrison has been crappy,” Sam bulled on, “but he doesn’t know that Michael has some sort of vendetta against me for working with his little brother, no.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“And I haven’t mentioned anything about the Singenta thing so…” Sam shrugged. Castiel’s fingers began beating against the armchair.  
  
“I can’t help but think,” he said slowly, “that Dean is intelligent enough to know that he can’t solve those kinds of problems for you. I think he’d just give you support.” Sam sucked on his teeth. It figured that Castiel would phrase things in a way that made Sam sound like a mulish teenager.  
  
“Not so sure,” Sam replied, which honestly just made him sound even more like the aforementioned mulish teenager.  
  
Castiel gave the armchair one last tap before letting his hands fall still.  
  
“Very well,” he said. “Do you want to go anywhere in the meantime? Or we can sit here and stare at one another.” It took Sam a moment to realize he’d just heard a sarcastic Castiel. He glanced over at him, but Castiel only had a blank palette of a face to present. Figured.  
  
And then something shifted in Sam, leaving him to drop his head down and trip into low laughter.  
  
“Alright,” he peered at Castiel through his hair. “Go on, chew me out, I can handle it.”  
  
Castiel cleared his throat, readjusted himself, then launched a hasty, “If I had a brother like Dean, I wouldn’t be pushing him away. Because I wouldn’t assume that he’d keep coming back.”  
  
Oh. Ouch.  
  
“That it?” Castiel leveled a small glare at him. Suddenly, Sam wondered if last night’s…bonding?...had breached some wall between friends and  _friends_. He couldn’t necessarily say he minded.  
  
“Fine,” Castiel said primly. “I won’t give any more opinions on the matter. What do you plan to do concerning the Singenta story?”  
  
“What?” Sam blinked.  
  
“The Singenta story,” Castiel repeated patiently. “I think you should write it.”  
  
“Didn’t you tell me Michael didn’t want me doing it? Two strikes already and all that?”  
  
“That’s true,” Castiel agreed. “Which is why I’d suggest you follow Jo’s example and write the story on your own time and resources. Michael certainly can’t say anything to that.”  
  
“Where would I  _publish_? My name has a bad rep.”  
  
“I can assure you that there are plenty of publications that would accept an article from you, even if they’re…alternative or exclusively online.”  
  
“Hang on, hang on,” Sam raised a hand as if to grab a Castiel who had begun running without telling him where they were going. “What happened to subverting authority and playing it safe?” Castiel pressed his lips together, hands coming down to slip beneath his thighs.  
  
“I think,” he said in a precise voice, “I trusted that Michael—and Raphael and Zachariah and the rest—cared more about good reporting than petty office politics.” He looked at Sam with sharp blue eyes. “I think I was wrong.”  
  
Sam swallowed against an unexpected lump in his throat.  
  
“And I was also disturbed by the secrecy. Because I still half-believed that you weren’t as innocent in the Rodriguez matter as was claimed. But I’ve changed my mind in that regard too, and I apologize for doubting you.” The lump promptly dropped down into Sam’s stomach, and he almost opened his mouth. Almost. But Castiel was looking at him with such openness, and the thought of him leaving made Sam’s heart clench. Something needy and whining in Sam yelled at him to shut up, and he listened to it.  
  
“I wouldn’t have trusted me either,” Sam compromised with himself. He reached out toward the coffee cup, trying to get his mind back on track. “But you think this story is worth telling?”  
  
“Yes,” Castiel’s voice came out firmly. “And I think it should have a photo essay to accompany it.” Sam jerked his face away from his coffee.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You heard me.”  
  
“But you have standing, Cas,” Sam lowered the coffee completely. “You’re an editor.”  
  
“That’s true.” Castiel’s eyes had turned harder. “But I have just as much a right to work on projects in my free time as you do.” Sam stared at Castiel, coffee loose in hand, and wondered dazedly how this unassuming man in his slightly oversized overcoat had gone from vague acquaintance to…  
  
“Vigilante journalists in arms.”  
  
“What?” Castiel asked.  
  
“That’s what you’re proposing, that we become vigilante journalists in arms. I feel like we need a team name.” Castiel’s face morphed into the one Sam had always found so endearing: confused and edging toward grumpy.  
  
“Is that you saying yes?” Castiel ventured.  
  
Sam laughed, a bright thing that matched the sunlight filtering through grimy windows. He downed a swig of cold coffee before answering.  
  
“Yeah, Cas. That’s me saying absolutely yes.”


	10. Chapter 10

 

> _“The first step in good reporting is good snooping.”_  
>  _\- Matt Drudge_

_  
_**The New Eldritch Herald – Monday, August 5, 2013**  
  
 **Library adds new wing; construction moves ahead of schedule**  
By Garth Fitzgerald IV – The new south wing will contain a Teen Section and New Media.  
Photos by Castiel Novak  
  
 **Second budget meeting more successful**  
By Victor Henriksen – City government agreed on a 2014 budget within five hours.  
  
 **Schroder trials hears closing arguments**  
By Ruby Sangre – After several days of hearings, closing arguments are scheduled for Patricia Schroder, tried for murdering her husband.  
  
 *********  
  
In the very beginning of his career, Castiel had held the vague notion that he’d someday get a Watergate style story. The full monty too: a massive government cover up, anonymous sources hidden in the shadows, bold headlines, a grizzled veteran of an editor at his back, and an odd-couple reporter at his side.  
  
Such thoughts had eventually evaporated into the daily grind of writing captions and not spelling names wrong and battling fluorescent lighting. Like a child’s dreams of being a cowboy morphing into an adult managing hedge funds.  
  
But now, Castiel felt as if someone had grabbed him by the collar, dragged him away from said hedge funds, plopped a wide-brimmed hat on his head an swung him onto a horse. Granted, this was hardly Watergate. But Castiel felt there was something nonetheless terrifying (in a good way) about under-the-radar journalism.  
  
And he did have the odd-partner reporter at his side, Castiel considered as he watched Sam pull into his apartment’s parking lot. So there was that.  
  
Castiel let his curtain drop in case Sam looked up and realized Castiel had been watching for him. He hauled two bags over one shoulder and perched a tripod on the other. Then he flicked off the lights, locked the front door, and clattered down the stairs to where Sam waited.  
  
He’d not have minded driving, but Sam had asked too earnestly to pick Castiel up instead of the other way around. Castiel gathered that Sam was still intent on keeping Dean in the dark about his activities. The decision sat uneasily with Castiel, but he also didn’t see how it was any of his business.  
  
“You can throw it in the back,” Sam said through the window, and Castiel complied, dumping his tripod and messenger bag unceremoniously. The camera bag got a little more care.  
  
“Do you know how to get there?” Castiel asked when he slipped into the passenger seat.  
  
“Yup,” Sam waved a smartphone. “Not that far.” Castiel looked out the window as Sam pulled out of the apartment complex, trying and failing to quell the knot of anxiety-excitement-terror-giddiness forming in his stomach.  
  
He could all but feel Sam glancing over at him every few seconds.  
  
“Are you sure you still want to do this?” he asked. Castiel folded his hands in his lap and nodded.  
  
“It was my suggestion, wasn’t it?” he said. “I still mean everything I said yesterday.”  
  
“Okay,” Sam returned his attention to the road, straightening his arms slightly. “That’s good.” A hint of pink had crept across his nose. Castiel politely pretended not to have noticed.  
  
Castiel returned his gaze to the window, watching blurs of storefronts and other cars. The sun had yet to rise, leaving everything in washes of gray. Castiel thought a moment, then reached back and dragged his camera up to the front seat.  
  
“I don’t usually get to capture the town in this light while in a moving car,” Castiel explained when Sam peered over to see what he was doing. “Since usually I’m driving.”  
  
“Ah,” Sam nodded as Castiel set his camera for long exposure—to achieve an artistic blurriness—then braced his elbows against the window and began shooting. Castiel let the process calm him down, seeking refuge in the constant stream of lighting-motion-color-pattern-form.  
  
He’d been telling the truth: he  _did_ still mean everything he’d said in the cabin the day before. Even when he’d had a miniature panic attack last night in bed, it hadn’t been the  _I’m going to get a pay slash if Michael finds out who I’m secretly working with_ sort of panic. More,  _Now I’ve committed to this, what if I let Sam down? Or the people we’re reporting about? Or Anna, who seems to think I’ve got a rebellious streak?_  
  
Castiel released a small puff of air and tried to sweep those thoughts away with the image a woman’s white t-shirt made when reflected in a shop’s window.  
  
The gray had lightened to a paler gray when Sam neared the Singenta parking lot. He slowed when they rolled up to what resembled an empty ticket booth.  
  
“Drive on by,” Castiel waved a hand. “No one’s ever stopped me.”  
  
“What if they have cameras?” Sam asked, still not moving the car forward. Castiel considered this.  
  
“I probably would have already gotten a warning shot if they were that bothered by my presence,” he decided. “I always have a giant camera hanging around my neck. It’s not as if they can’t tell what I’m doing.” Sam let out a cough of laughter and let them roll past the ticket booth, aiming for visitor parking. Workers could already be seen emerging from their cars.  
  
“Okay,” Sam killed the engine and sat back in his seat, slapping open hands against his thighs. “Here we go. We still need a team name.”  
  
“I’ll brainstorm,” Castiel promised as they clacked the doors open.  
  
Whenever Castiel came here, he had explained to Sam, he would casually approach anyone who didn’t look too busy and strike up conversation. His camera helped explain his goal without him saying a word, which Castiel appreciated. And over the months, people had begun to recognize him. Had started asking after the herbs he was trying to grow on his kitchen countertop, or enquired if he did private work, because so-and-so has a wedding coming up and they’re looking for a photographer.  
  
“I figured we can introduce you to a few people and hear their thoughts,” Castiel told Sam as they strode across the parking lot. “You can let people know what you’re after. I’m sure news will spread. If there’s anyone really eager to speak to you, they’ll find us.”  
  
“Yeah?” Sam asked, glancing down at Castiel. “You sure people will want to associate with the media on this kind of topic?”  
  
“You’re too used to the big city,” Castiel cracked a grin. “Believe it or not, the New Eldritch Herald has a good reputation among its readers. Small town mentality. Everyone’s a little more trusting.” Sam seemed to mull over this as Castiel led them toward a young man clambering out of a van with a woman astride a polar bear painted on the side.  
  
“Cassie!” the man exclaimed, and Castiel refrained as per usual from reminding Andy that this was not his name.  
  
“Hello, Andy,” he said instead. “How are you?”  
  
“Great man, real great,” Andy grinned, head bobbing. “Who’s your friend?”  
  
“This is my coworker,” Castiel stepped back to let Sam reach out his hand for a shake, before Andy turned it into a high five.  
  
“’nother camera guy?” Andy asked. “Hey, you need to know anything about cameras, and I mean anything, you ask this guy right here. Genius, man. He helped me figure out an old camera I found in a yard sale. Old school here, I mean dark room shit.”  
  
“Andy is an aspiring photographer,” Castiel supplied.  
  
“I’m more into the writing,” Sam told Andy. “Um, I’m working on an article actually. About this factory.”  
  
“Yeah?” Andy raised an eyebrow. “Gonna expose the violence inherent in the system? ’Cause I’m down with that.”  
  
“Sort of,” Sam smiled. “It’s more about worker health and safety. I’d like the chance to talk to some of you, if you’re willing.”  
  
“I’m right here man,” Andy spread his arms. “And I’ll tell you on the record that listening to that Susan chick bitch at us all day is not good for anyone’s health, you hear me?”  
  
“Right, right,” Sam half laughed. “No, but out of curiosity, do you notice a lot of dust where you work? Because I talked to a lady who works here, and she said it’s pretty noticeable.”  
  
“Yeah, it gets dusty,” Andy shrugged casually. “I mean, I guess it can get me coughing sometimes, but never that bad.”  
  
“Haven’t had any throat or nose issues?”  
  
“Nah. Not from work at least.” Andy wriggled his eyebrows.  
  
“How long you been working here?”  
  
“Here? ‘bout eight months. Pretty new.” He frowned, and suddenly Castiel found himself looking at a disconcertingly serious Andy. “Y’know, I bet the older guys would have more to talk about. I know I’ve heard Benny complain about his lungs more than once.”  
  
“Yeah?” Sam nodded, no doubt making a mental note. “Thanks, that’s good to know.”  
  
A few minutes later, as Andy bid them goodbye with a promise that Susan would chew him out if he didn’t turn in his paperwork before his shift, Cas found himself glancing up at a lightly frowning Sam.  
  
“Well?” Castiel prompted.  
  
“I’m still trying to figure out whether symptoms are widespread or limited to a few cases,” Sam muttered half to himself.  
  
“We won’t know until we ask,” Castiel said. “Come on, I know Lily fairly well.”  
  
The next twenty minutes went more or less as Castiel had imagined. He introduced Sam to several employees with whom he’d spoken before. All of them regarded the tall, long-haired reporter with thinly veiled curiosity. Sam, for his part, displayed his professional self with his usual grace, smiling politely and asking after names. His notebook remained closed for the most part. Instead, Sam explained his article and casually mentioning that if anyone was interested, they could share their opinions on the matter.  
  
People gave a range of responses after hearing this. Some nodded and said that they’d be happy to help, but didn’t think they had anything to say about dust or fluoride. Others, probably feeling that they ought to say  _something_ , gave very broad thoughts that Castiel knew wouldn’t do Sam any good.  
  
And then they met people like Benny.  
  
“Let’s talk to that guy,” Sam said.  
  
“Who?”  
  
“The one in the hat.” Castiel squinted in the direction Sam pointed.  
  
“Sam, I don’t know him.”  
  
“Well we weren’t going to stick to your crowd, were we?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“So come on, he doesn’t look like he’s in a rush.” Castiel had to hasten then because Sam had started speed walking with those unnecessarily long legs of his.  
  
“Hi, sorry,” Sam said as he neared the man, who looked up from his phone. “My name’s Sam Winchester. I’m working on an article about this factory’s health and safety practices. I’m talking to some of the workers this morning to get an idea of their thoughts, and I was just wondering if you’re interested in chatting for a few minutes.” Clean, straightforward, polite. Castiel got the sense that Sam was in his element.  
  
The man studied Sam for another few seconds then placed his phone in his pocket.  
  
“Who’d you say you’re working with?” he asked in a Louisiana drawl.  
  
“We’re freelancing,” Castiel piped up, earning himself a carefully leveled gaze.  
  
“That so?” the man asked. He returned his attention to Sam. “What sort of health and safety practices?” Castiel found himself watching the man carefully as Sam explained the reports of dust and possible fluoride poisoning. He saw no overt change in the man’s face or stance, but when Sam fell silent, the man released a low chuckle.  
  
“So someone’s finally noticed,” he said in a surprisingly warm voice. He held out a hand. “Benny Lafitte. Floor manager.”  
  
“You’re Benny!” Sam grinned like he was meeting a TV star, accepting the hand. “We’ve heard your name already.”  
  
“Have you now? Was it to bitch about me?”  
  
“More that you’ve been known to bitch about the dust,” Sam said.  
  
“Guilty of that, I guess,” Benny mused aloud. “But here now, Sam was it? You’re writing this article for sure?”  
  
“At this point yes.”  
  
“Then I want in on that,” Benny tapped Sam’s notebook. “I’m gonna be late if I don’t hightail it, but how about I give you my email, we set up somewhere to chat, and you can listen to an old man complain about this place all you want.”  
  
“That sounds great,” Sam nodded, while Castiel wondered how Benny could call himself old when he looked no older than 35.  
  
After Sam had copied down the email address, Benny added, “You tried talking to management yet?”  
  
“Haven’t reached that hurdle, no.”  
  
“I’ll give you a hint then. Look for Ava. She’s one of the general secretaries and a real sweet gal. You get on her good side, she can help you get your foot in some doors.”  
  
“Ava,” Sam repeated. “Thanks, Benny.”  
  
“I’m expecting that email,” Benny nodded. With a touch of his hand to his hat, he strode toward the factory in a way that looked unhurried yet purposeful. Castiel decided he’d ask for a profile picture of the man when Sam interviewed him.  
  
“He’s going to be helpful,” Sam said, voice bright. “I can feel it.”  
  
By that point, the sun had risen properly and Sam and Castiel found themselves with a list of willing sources and their emails and phone numbers.  
  
“I found three of Amy’s coworkers that she mentioned,” Sam tapped his notebook. “But not whoever was discussing lawsuits.”  
  
“I’m sure they’ll come out of the woodwork,” Castiel looked around at the now empty parking lot. “How do you feel about what we got?”  
  
“Good,” Sam said after a long silence. “I kept a tally. Over half agreed that the dust in there gets bad enough to cause coughing fits, and about half of  _that_  group is genuinely worried about it, or have ongoing health issues that may or may not be related to it. So we’re not making this up.” The,  _so Michael is wrong_ , went unsaid.  
  
“You know what I’m seeing,” Castiel stuck his hands into his pockets thoughtfully. “There’s usually an agreement that an employee and employer make. The employee gives their honest work and the employer promises pay and a safe work environment. And Singenta is starting to creep over the line between ‘safe’ and ‘unsafe.’ They’re not causing deep, widespread damage yet. But there is definitely damage. They’re breaking the agreement, and the workers shouldn’t have to put up with it.” Castiel looked up to find Sam outright beaming at him, the rising sun turning his eyes brilliant hazel. “What?”  
  
“Nothing,” Sam shook his head, and Castiel wanted to scoff. “We’ve got almost an hour until work. Want me to drive you back home?”  
  
“If you want,” Castiel scuffed at the pavement. “Would you like to meet Mr. Molena-Iglesias?”  
  
“The guy on Yallo Road?”  
  
“I’m surprised you remember that.”  
  
“Why would I not remember?” Sam asked as he led them back to his car. “He can mimic birdcalls. You realize I spent an entire summer of my childhood trying to learn birdcalls?”  
  
The bloom of warmth across Castiel’s skin really had nothing to do with the freshly risen sun.  
  
*****  
  
 **The New Eldritch Herald – Wednesday, August 7, 2013**  
  
 **Escaped cow charges through New Eldritch neighborhood**  
By Rufus Turner – Residents on Andrew Rd. found a cow running through their neighborhood on Wednesday morning. Animal control was on the scene twenty minutes after the first call.  
Photos by Jo Harvelle  
  
 **With budget cuts looming, teachers begin preparations for 2013-2014 school year**  
By Becky Rosen – Even with a cut in funding this year, Fremont County teachers can expect a higher number of students than in previous years.  
  
 **Ultimate Frisbee rising in popularity**  
By Gordon Walker – While most think of Frisbee as a casual game, the Flying Tornados, New Eldritch’s only Ultimate Frisbee team, begs to differ  
Photos by Castiel Novak  
…  
…  
  
 **To:** The New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Jo Harvelle  
 **Subject:** RAMPAGING BULLS  
 **Attachment:** BULL!!.zip  
  
Guys,  
  
Sometimes I really love my job. ‘Cause this morning, I got to run around after a rampaging bull and shoot photographs! Rufus tagged along and yelled at me. J  
Check out the pictures.  
  
Jo  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Rufus Turner  
 **Subject:** Re: RAMPAGING BULLS  
  
It was a cow, not a bull. Did you see giant swinging balls, Jo? No, you saw a giant swinging udder.  
You were lucky you didn’t get trampled.  
  
Rufus.  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Balthazar Peters  
 **Subject:** Re: RAMPAGING BULLS  
  
Jo,  
  
These are absolutely going in the end-of-year slideshow. I especially like the selfie.  
  
Balth  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Jo Harvelle  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: RAMPAGING BULLS  
  
#yolojo  
  
  
 **To:** The New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Jo Harvelle  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: RAMPAGING BULLS  
  
  
Rufus stop giving me that look; I can see you across the newsroom.  
  
*****  
  
 _coming over may have major issue._  
  
Castiel had barely finished reading the text when his phone buzzed again.  
  
 _I can bring food._ Castiel mentally sifted through his refrigerator’s contents before answering.  
  
 _I still have takeout from last night_.  _I_ told _you we ordered too much._  
  
 _Ok, sorry heading over now._  
  
For a journalist, Castiel reflected idly, Sam had little use for proper grammar in his texts. He set his phone down and rubbed both hands over his face. He was horribly slouched in his seat: legs ramrod straight and crossed at the ankle and back making a triangle with the chair. He could just hear Anna reminding him that bad posture led to all those back problems.  
  
But Castiel had just battled through the final edits on his courthouse photo essay, and he’d slouch in his own chair if he wanted to. Because editing, especially with a non-photographer, could be utter hell.  
  
Admittedly, Castiel could have been editing with Michael, rather than Raphael. And for all her rigidity in managing the staff, Raphael was not the one with a vendetta.  
  
Though perhaps she was, Castiel mused. Over the last few days, he’d wondered multiple times whether Raphael knew of the connection between Lucian and Sam. She had to, Castiel reasoned, if she’d seen Sam’s letter of recommendation. But if Raphael shared Michael’s attitude toward the whole thing, she kept it much better hidden. Which made sense. As Castiel had told Sam weeks ago, no one ever really knew what Raphael was thinking. And even now, Castiel couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.  
  
“Bye, Castiel,” Jo’s voice jerked Castiel away from his reverie. He looked up to find his coworker swinging a bulging purse over her shoulder.  
  
“Have a good night,” Castiel returned.  
  
“Yeah, I’ll try,” Jo said around a huff. It looked as if her elation from earlier that morning had disappeared. “Charlie and I are going to see if the baker is going to let us film her or not. She’s not answering  _any_  of our calls.”  
  
“She may be busy,” Castiel suggested.  
  
“Everyone’s always busy,” Jo said with the gravitas of someone proclaiming a universal truth. Castiel’s mouth flattened with a suppressed smile and he wished Jo good luck. After she had left, Castiel fiddled with the possibility of getting some work done, then decided to head home as well. Sam would be there soon in any case.  
  
For something they’d been doing for all of a week and a half, Castiel reflected, these evenings spent working with Sam had become remarkably…comfortable. It wasn’t as if they did anything particularly exciting either: mostly transcribed the interviews Sam was slowly gathering from Singenta employees. But they had a routine now: someone would bring food, they’d set themselves up at the kitchen table, then they’d pull out their laptops, stick in their earbuds, and type away for a few hours while the pizza or Chinese food or home-cooked-albeit-hastily-made meal slowly disappeared. (Or not, as was the case the night before. Castiel still wasn’t sure why Sam thought they could eat a dozen egg rolls and several cartons of food in one sitting.)  
  
Sometimes, they’d discuss what someone had said in an interview, or pose questions, or just use each other as sounding boards for vague notions that had yet to solidify into ideas. More than once they fell into conversations about how terrible both of them had been at algebra or whether “To Kill a Mockingbird” really was the great American novel. When he wasn’t doing any of that, Castiel knew that Sam typed up thoughts in a pseudo rough draft. Castiel sifted through and edited photos that may be useful for the eventual photo essay. And somewhere between the cold food and the straining eyes and the bouts of utter frustration when the words in a recording were unintelligible, Castiel found himself the happiest he’d been in a while.  
  
Castiel pulled into the parking lot to find Sam’s car already there. Sam himself sat perched on the hood, bathed in afternoon sunlight, flipping through his notebook. Castiel imagined that once he drew nearer, he’d find that creasing arch above Sam’s brows that indicated worry or frustration.  
  
“When you say issue,” Castiel said as he neared. “How manageable are we talking?”  
  
“Man, I don’t even know,” Sam slipped off his car and followed Castiel up to his apartment. He seemed to be thinking as Castiel opened the door, shoving it open where it had begun to stick from the summer heat. “Probably decently manageable,” Sam clarified.  
  
“Probably decently,” Castiel repeated, and earned himself what Dean had once called “the Sammy bitchface.” This brief thought of Dean stuck in Castiel’s mind like a leaf caught in a stream’s eddy. He watched Sam open his fridge to scout out the leftovers. The seventh night within a week and a half that Sam had eaten dinner here instead of with his brother. Castiel half wanted to suggest that they work at Sam’s and Dean’s house. Or invite Dean for dinner here. Or do something that would stop the gnawing suspicion that Castiel was being an enabler.  
  
Instead Castiel met the indomitable wall labeled “Winchester brother business. Not your place. Stay out of it.”  
  
Of course if Sam ended up living here—which Castiel could see happening at this point—then it may well become his problem. Not that Castiel would  _mind_ Sam as a roommate. But he didn’t like the idea of a Sam who avoided being with Dean. It strayed too close to his own mess of a relationship with Jimmy.  
  
“Chinese food leftovers are sort of gross,” Sam observed as he peered into a carton.  
  
“I don’t waste food,” Castiel said, coming into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. “I have spinach and arugula still,” he added as a peace offering. “You can make a salad.”  
  
“Hm,” Sam replied noncommittally as he stashed the carton back on its shelf and clattered open the crisper. Castiel leaned against the counter and watched Sam’s broad back as he searched for the promised greens. Castiel’s kitchen, Sam had proclaimed a week ago, was blessed for being run by someone who actually liked fruit and vegetables.  
  
“Here,” Castiel reached down and took the bag of arugula Sam had found. “I’ll make it. You explain what issue is probably decently manageable.” Sam sent Castiel one of those lopsided grins that Castiel could only ever call sweet.  
  
“Okay,” Sam stepped away from the fridge and leaned against the oven as Castiel fetched the colander. “So I told you I was going to try and tackle Singenta management today.” Castiel had in fact forgotten until that moment, but he gave a “yes dear” nod and set the colander up in the sink. “I tried following Benny’s advice—oh, by the way, I’m interviewing him on Saturday, I think you should be there—and looked for Ava.”  
  
“She wasn’t helpful?” Castiel asked.  
  
“Well no, mainly because she wasn’t there,” Sam tugged at his hair. “Turns out she got married this weekend and is on her honeymoon for the next two weeks.”  
  
“Ah,” Castiel nodded, scrubbing lightly at arugula leaves under a steady stream of water. “That’s unfortunate timing.”  
  
“You’re telling me.” Sam pursed his lips, jamming his hands into his pockets. “I was kicking myself, because I really should have been on this last week. That’s like a cardinal rule of reporting, isn’t it? Get your sources as soon as possible, before they run off on vacation or whatever.” Sam looked so put out by the whole thing, so little boyish, that Castiel had to duck his head and wonder if Dean saw the little brother in Sam as much as Castiel sometimes did.  
  
“You still tried to get in contact with someone though?” Castiel suggested.  
  
“Well yeah. Soon as I said the word “article,” I got bumped off to the public relations people over at the corporate offices in St. Louis.” Sam folded his arms. “The person I talked to was willing to say that Singenta is committed to the health and safety of its staff and not much else.”  
  
“So you gave up?”  
  
“So I called the factory back and cajoled my way into an interview with the director of operations,” Sam gave Castiel a ‘you’re-not-that-funny’ look.  
  
“Impressive,” Castiel said serenely.  
  
“He didn’t seem really thrilled about it. But he agreed to let me come to his office, so that’s good. People are more honest when you can see their faces.”  
  
“You’re very dedicated to doing these interviews in person,” Castiel observed as he started on the spinach. “Is that why?”  
  
“I guess. I mean, you should get it as a photographer. Phone interviews are for when there’s a deadline within the next few hours. Face to face interviews are how you get the third dimension of the story.”  
  
Castiel did understand; all too well, probably. Body language did wonders for context. And he had to wonder if Sam had missed seeing the people he was interviewing—if this insistence on conducting every interview in person was a symptom of deprivation.  
  
The thought made Castiel look at Sam with as much warmth as he could muster and say. “I’m sure you’ll wring something out of them. Fetch the red bell pepper, would you?”  
  
*****  
  
 **The New Eldritch Herald – Thursday, August 8, 2013**  
  
 **Walgreens opposers collect 5000 signatures, present to City Council**  
By Ruby Sangre – It remains unclear whether these signatures will alter the Council’s approval of a Walgreens in historic New Eldritch.  
  
 **Record company’s ad campaign causes anger, inconvenience**  
By Bela Talbot – Riverwind Records’ attempt to get its name out via graffiti across several downtown shop fronts was met with anger from locals.  
Photos by Castiel Novak  
  
 **OPINION: There’s being clever and then there’s being a douche-canoe**  
By Gabe Lokey – Yes, Riverwind Records’ art was very witty and cute. No, you don’t do that to peoples’ buildings without asking first. Get it together, Riverwind.  
…  
…  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Tessa Harvester  
 **Subject:** New word?  
  
So Gabe,  
  
Is douche canoe an AP Style approved word now?  
  
Tessa  
  
  
 **To:** Michael Alef  
 **From:** Raphael Dusan  
 **Subject:** W & N  
  
I haven’t seen anything on their internet history. Even Winchester has stopped searching for Singenta material. Thoughts?  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Gabe Lokey  
 **Subject:** Re: New word?  
  
It is now! AP can suck it  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Sam Winchester  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: New word?  
  
And here I thought my brother had made that word up.  
  
Sam  
  
  
 **To:** Raphael Dusan  
 **From:** Michael Alef  
 **Subject:** Re: W & N  
  
Winchester could be using his personal laptop now. But I do think this is all over.  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Tessa Harvester  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: New Word?  
  
Apparently great minds think alike.  
  
Tessa  
  
  
 **To:** Michael Alef  
 **From:** Raphael Dusan  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: W & N  
  
If you say so.  
They’re misusing the Bulletin again, by the way. Do you want to or shall I?  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Gabe Lokey  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: New word?  
  
Indeed, Tessa.  
Sam, your brother is truly a visionary before his time.  
  
  
 **To:** Raphael Dusan  
 **From:** Michael Alef  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: W & N  
  
Just leave it.  
  
*****  
  
Castiel had been expecting something like it. But that did not mean he wasn’t surprised when Dean Winchester appeared at his desk.  
  
At first, Castiel could only stare at the incongruence of Dean surrounded by computers and reporters and white walls rather than the heavy, gray machinery of the printing press.  
  
“Dean,” Castiel said blankly, then added, “Jo and Sam are both gone.”  
  
“I know that,” Dean gave him a funny look. “I’m looking for you.”  
  
“Me?” Castiel blinked. Dean glanced away as he ran a hand along the side if his head, muttering something that may have contained the phrase “Hoo boy.”  
  
“I uh…” Dean looked at Castiel again. “I need to talk to you.”  
  
“Oh,” Castiel felt his shoulders slump. Of course Dean needed to talk. Why on earth wouldn’t he, after eight nights of an absent Sam?  
  
“Hey, can we talk somewhere else?” Dean asked. “King Dick over there is giving me the stink eye.” Castiel started and as subtly as possible tried to glance around. And yes, there was Michael talking to Naomi. As Castiel watched, Michael’s glance shot up to linger on Dean before focusing on Naomi again.  
  
“Yes, of course,” Castiel stood. He let Dean lead him out of the newsroom, all too aware of several pairs of eyes watching their progress. Dean ended up leading them into the parking lot: neutral ground. They paused several paces away from the front door, along a stretch of bare brick wall. Dean shifted and cleared his throat, and Castiel was put in mind of a wolf posturing before a fight.  
  
“You want to ask after Sam,” Castiel said in a surge of devil-may-care. Dean paused and eyed Castiel. Castiel could all but see the perked ears and pointed muzzle, legs ready to either relax or leap forward. So, not outright hostility. Not yet. But wariness, and confusion tinted with curiosity.  
  
Dean shook his head and gave a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.  
  
“Okay, look, I’m not judging anyone here first off, alright? I don’t really care what you two are into. Hell, not as if I haven’t played around with—“  
  
“Your brother and I are not engaged in anything sexual,” Castiel blurted, then felt his neck burn red. Dean blinked.  
  
“You—okay.” He pressed his fingers into his closed eyelids for a moment. He emerged with a deep inhale, voice tumbling out in a thunderburst. “Then what the  _hell_  is my little brother doing at your place every goddamn night?”  
  
Oh. Castiel saw fangs there. And yet all he could manage in response was, “Did you follow Sam to my apartment?”  
  
“Fuck you, yes I did!” Dean snapped. “What do you want me to do? Scratch my ass and wonder if Sam’s off doing…who the hell knows what kind of shit?” No, Castiel had to admit, that would not be Dean’s way at all. And for a moment, Castiel felt a swell of jealousy for Sam. Jealousy that he had someone in his life who cared so deeply, followed by annoyance that Sam seemed intent on shoving it away. If Jimmy…  
  
“I understand why you’d be worried,” Castiel said in as steady a voice as he could manage. “But I can promise you that we’re doing professional work.”  
  
“At nine p.m.?”  
  
“It’s an…independent project on which we’re collaborating,” Castiel said. Dean’s eyed narrowed, obviously not satisfied with this answer.  
  
“What kind of project?” Oh lord help him.  
  
“I don’t feel comfortable telling you,” Castiel said. “Not because I’m particularly worried about you knowing what we’re doing—I’d actually prefer that you know—but because I want to respect Sam’s wishes. It’s not my place to meddle with you two.”  
  
“Respect Sam’s—oh for christ’s sake,” Dean looked ready to punch something, and Castiel wondered if he should step out of range.  
  
“If it makes you feel any better,” Castiel added, “I’ve told Sam he’s being ridiculous.”  
  
“Hope you told him he’s a snot-nosed brat too.” Dean pressed his lips together and put his hands on his hips, staring down at the pavement. Not a death glare; something much sadder and more tired. And Castiel didn’t even see a wolf anymore, just a man who was sick with worry and love for his brother. Castiel sighed and opened his mouth but Dean was already speaking.  
  
“I don’t even know anymore with that kid,” Dean said, almost to himself. “Bobby says to give him space, so I give him space. Jo goes on about not expecting it to be the same as it was eight years ago, and I  _get_ that. But he doesn’t even want to…” Dean grimaced and glanced at Castiel with, surprisingly, embarrassment. Castiel could see Dean shutting down, regretting his few moments of openness. And suddenly, Castiel didn’t want that at all.  
  
“What happened eight years ago?” Castiel hastened. “Why did Sam leave?” Dean glared at him. Too late.  
  
“You’re so worried about not meddling with us, then don’t meddle,” he said, though not with real venom. Just heaviness. Castiel shut his mouth with an audible snap.  
  
“My apologies,” Castiel said. Dean shook his head, not quite meeting Castiel’s eyes.  
  
“You really are a nerdy little dude with a camera,” he muttered. Castiel couldn’t tell if that was an insult or backhanded compliment.  
  
“I’ll try and talk Sam into being more open,” Castiel offered. Dean didn’t say anything. “I can force him to go home more often. He really works himself too hard.”  
  
“Yeah, why’s he doing extra work anyway?” Dean lifted his head. “The kid came home tired already. Now he trips through the door at eleven and is up by five the next morning, skipping lunch to do…whatever. Who does that?”  
  
People who had found a meaningful mission at last, Castiel thought, and were latching onto it with every ounce of energy they had.  
  
“I’ll get him home more often,” Castiel repeated. He hesitated then added, “I am telling the truth on this. We’re not doing anything dangerous.”  
  
“Between you and Sammy? I know that,” Dean snorted. “If I thought there was any chance of you hurting him, by the way, we’d be having a real different kind of conversation.”  
  
Ah, fangs again. Nothing serious this time, just a flash of them to show who was in charge. Castiel almost wanted to chuckle.  
  
Instead he looked Dean in the face and said, “I have no doubt.”


	11. Chapter 11

 

> _“Advertisements…contain the only truths to be relied on in a newspaper.”_  
>  _\- Thomas Jefferson_

_  
_“You busy, kid?” Sam jerked his head up from his hand to find Rufus standing just behind his chair, rifling through a pile of papers. Sam glanced back a little guiltily at his laptop, which showed yet another article about Singenta, this one about a plant over in South Dakota.  
  
“No,” he clicked out of the page and shut his laptop. “Need something?”  
  
“The advertising department’s Ethernet connection’s gone bust and Samandriel needs copies of the ads for this weekend’s paper,” Rufus said. “You mind playing gopher?”  
  
“Sure,” Sam stood, then paused. “Where’s the advertising section exactly?”  
  
“Basement level, down the hall from the printing press,” Rufus got a familiar spark in his eye. “We call it Hell, around here.” Sam returned the grin. He’d noticed Rufus smiling at him more, being more personable. He suspected it might have had to do with his article’s failure against Michael. Not that Rufus had anything to do with it, but Sam appreciated the gesture.  
  
Five minutes later, he was walking down the dim, badly carpeted hall that led to the advertising department. Sam thought he understood the Hell jokes; compared to the basement’s odd smell and uncomfortable heat, the newsroom’s large windows and familiar bustle looked downright heavenly.  
  
The secretary was not at their desk when Sam entered, so he began walking down a long line of offices. Employees passed him, but no one seemed interested in asking him who he was or what he was doing. Finally, Sam reached out to tap a man on the shoulder as he passed.  
  
“Sorry,” he said automatically when he caught sight of the expression on the man’s face. “I was told to pick up copies of the ads for the weekend paper? Rufus told me the Ethernet connection was broken.”  
  
The confusion on the man’s face disappeared, though he still looked mildly annoyed.  
  
“Check in with Abaddon,” he said, jerking his thumb down the hall. “She’s in charge of that.”  
  
“Where can I—“  
  
“If it isn’t Winchester,” a voice suddenly called out, and Sam turned to find Crowley approaching them, hands stuck casually in his pockets. Sam felt every muscle stiffen as Crowley clapped the man on the shoulder as he neared. “Go on, Alastair, I’ll handle our messenger from up top.”  
  
Alastair glanced at Sam once last time before leaving them. Sam heard Crowley chuckle beside him, and had a sudden surge of conviction that running into Crowley had been far from accidental.  
  
“You picked the wrong man for help,” Crowley told Sam. “Alastair is one of those people whose goal is to make everyone around him suffer for the sin of existing.”  
  
“Oh. Thanks then.” Sam said woodenly. “Where’s Abaddon’s office?”  
  
Crowley tilted his head and gave Sam an unsettlingly charming smile. “Why in such a rush?” he asked. “The copy isn’t ready yet anyhow, I’d give them another fifteen minutes.” He began strolling away. “Come on, we can wait in my office.” Sam followed after a long hesitation.  
  
“Tell me, Winchester,” Crowley said as they entered a small, neat office. “How’re the big boys upstairs treating you?”  
  
“Same as usual,” Sam said after a moment. He sat when Crowley gestured to a chair and watched the man pour himself dark, golden whiskey from a glass bottle.  
  
“Like shit, then,” Crowley said. He downed a shot of the whiskey and grimaced slightly. Sam shook his head when Crowley tilted the bottle toward him questioningly.  
  
“What do you want?” he finally asked.  
                                                                       
“I want my advertisements to make it to the newsroom, of course.” Sam gave him as deadpan an expression as he could manage. Crowley sighed, long and loud, and sat on top of his desk. “Spill it out then,” he waved the shot glass vaguely in Sam’s direction before pouring himself a second drink.  
  
“What’s wrong with you?” Sam blurted. “Who the hell wanders in, drops my old editor’s name, and wanders out again? It’s goddamn creepy.”  
  
“Mm, possibly,” Crowley held the shot glass up to the light briefly. “But now you understand what kind of mess you’re in.” He gave Sam a wry grin. “I thought it only fair.”  
  
“ _Why_?” Sam could feel his hands gripping the arms of the chairs, and slowly loosened them.  
  
“Why? That’s a vague question, Winchester,” Crowley downed the second shot. “If you’re asking why Michael and Lucian are using you in their infinite game of chess, I can only answer that you’re not the first to find yourself in this situation, and you certainly won’t be the last.”  
  
Sam shook his head, bit his lip, and asked despite himself, “What do you mean by chess?”  
  
“I mean,” Crowley said, his voice becoming broader, “that it’s always been a competition between those two. I mean that when Michael saw that letter of recommendation from his dear brother, when he realized that you’d been under Lucian’s control, he had no choice but to hire you and try his own hand on you.”  
  
“That’s so messed up.”  
  
“I thought you’d understand better than most,” Crowley said, “that family often brings out the worst in us.”  
  
Sam tried not to wince.  
  
Instead he sighed, rubbing his hand over his mouth as Crowley watched him, trying to quell the urge to stand and leave.  
  
“If I were you, Mr. Winchester,” Crowley broke the silence, “I’d be asking myself either how do I exit this game, or how do I change it. Because continuing as you are now is tantamount to professional suicide.”  
  
“Right,” Sam pushed himself to a stand. “I need to find Abaddon’s office.”  
  
“May I save you the trouble?” Crowley held up a stack of papers that, when Sam looked closer, turned out to be advertising copy. He didn’t know whether to laugh or punch Crowley in his smarmy face. He settled for reaching out and plucking the papers from Crowley with a wooden smile.  
  
“Why are you doing this?” Sam asked.  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“Telling me all this about Michael. What’s in it for you?” A worrying light entered Crowley’s dark brown eyes.  
  
“I’m afraid we haven’t reached that level of intimacy, Sam Winchester.”  
  
Sam blinked, then turned around, opened the door, and let it slam behind him. He was so busy wondering what the hell was wrong with this newspaper that he didn’t see the sticky note until he was nearly at the newsroom.  
  
But there it was: pink, stuck on an advertisement for a local restaurant, and bearing one line of looping handwriting:  _I suggest speaking to Meg Masters._  
  
*****  
  
Meg Masters.  
  
Sam rolled the name around in his head until lunchtime, but refrained from a Google search. That felt too much like accepting Crowley’s…well, “help” seemed too optimistic a term.  
  
When lunchtime came around, Sam grabbed his notebook, recorder and pen, left behind his press pass, and scooted past Pam in the hopes that no one would ask him if he was joining them for lunch. Castiel was safe, obviously, but Dean or Jo might want to know where he’d been disappearing to for the last week.  
  
Ideally, Sam would be showing up to lunch as usual, if only to cover the fact that he was up to something. But the harsh reality was that many of his sources only wanted to talk during business hours, and Sam didn’t want leave the office any earlier than his usual 5 p.m., in case Zachariah or Michael noticed. So he resorted to early morning interviews, lunchtime interviews, evening interviews with those willing and even a few phone interviews, though Sam tried to avoid them. He knew Castiel thought he was working too hard; knew Dean was getting deeply suspicious but he saw no other options.  
  
It felt odd to drive into the Singenta plant’s parking lot in the middle of the day, rather than in the pre-dawn light. Sam wondered if anyone would recognize him.  
  
The secretary at the front desk was on the phone when Sam approached, and held up one finger while she jotted something down with the other hand. Sam rocked back on his heels and looked around at posters depicting healthy corn stalks and smiling factory workers. His eyes roved over a directory board above the secretary’s head, then froze. Meg Masters. Rm 053. Director of Finances.  
  
“Sorry about that, can I help you?”  
  
Sam looked down at the secretary as she set the phone down.  
  
“Um,” he fumbled through his thoughts. “Sam Winchester. Here to see Edgar Valencia. I have an appointment.”  
  
“Wait a moment, please,” the secretary chirped, picking up the phone. Sam looked at the directory board again, in case it had changed. No, there she was, alliterating name and all. Sam felt, yet again, like the subject of a huge practical joke.  
  
“He’s meeting with someone, but he’ll be done very shortly,” the secretary told him. “Room 093, down this hall to the left and on the right hand side.”  
  
“Thanks,” Sam nodded before moving down the hall in too large strides. He tried to fathom who on earth Crowley might be, that he could play Sam like this. It was almost as bad as Michael. Almost. Because at least Crowley didn’t hide his actions behind a patina of professional integrity.  
  
Sam entered the operating office just in time to see a man with the air of a politician emerge from room 093. He glanced at Sam without a hint of surprise or curiosity, then quickly moved into the hallway. Sam turned back around in time to find a second man in a plaid shirt.  
  
“Winchester?” the man asked, and held out a hand. “Edgar Valencia.”  
  
“Thanks for letting me come in,” Sam took the handshake. “I’ll be sure to make this efficient. I’m sure you’re busy.”  
  
“Just a bit,” Edgar replied. “But you were pretty insistent.” Translation: I don’t want to talk to you, but I will if it means you’ll leave me alone. Sam smiled and followed Edgar into his office.  
  
“So,” Edgar leaned back in his chair, folded hands on top of his head. “Fluoride poisoning?”  
  
“Possible fluoride poisoning,” Sam amended. He lowered himself into the visitor’s chair and glanced around at a mostly bare office.  
  
“Those are pretty heavy words in a place like this,” Edgar said. “Fertilizer production is a potentially dangerous business; I think everyone who works here is well aware of that.”  
  
“Of course,” Sam nodded. Defensive already. Sam decided not to make it worse by pulling out his recorder.  
  
“I’ll just put it plainly then, Mr. Valencia,” Sam flipped open his notebook. “Let’s say you have workers concerned that they’re inhaling too many fluoride compounds. What’s your response?”  
  
“That if they have any concerns,” Edgar said slowly, “they should express it through the right avenues.” Sam jotted this down. Almost verbatim what the PR person had told him yesterday.  
  
“And do you think there’s a chance workers  _are_  getting fluoride poisoning?”  
  
“Are they getting more fluoride, more phosphates, more heavy metals in their system than the average Joe does at his job? Yes. That’s the nature of the work. But it’s in such small increments, it’s not posing a serious health issue.”  
  
“I understand,” Sam nodded. “Do you spend much time on the production floor?”  
  
“Used to spend more time there, less so when I got promoted.”  
  
“And do you ever notice the dust?”  
  
Edgar folded his hands on his desk. “Mr. Winchester, I understand that you reporter types have a job. And I can respect that. But as I explained, the dust is essentially harmless. We have filters that are designed to trap harmful compounds. Yes, some toxins get into the dust but again, it’s in very small amounts. And as someone in charge of ensuring the safety of our production procedure, it downright offends me when you insist we are somehow poisoning our workers.”  
  
 _You’re making this about you and your feelings_ , Sam mused.  
  
“I absolutely understand that,” Sam tapped at his notebook. “But I know that at least two workers have come to management with concerns. They had very similar symptoms that correlated with fluoride poisoning. And for every person who reports their sickness, you know there are five who keep quiet. So, as you say, it’s my job as a reporter to ask you why management gave these workers no answer. No reaction, no follow-up. Just weeks of silence.”  
  
Edgar’s mouth had become a slash across his face. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that,” he said. “Since I’m not in charge of handling complaints.”  
  
“Who would be?”  
  
“Susan Cheng, from human resources.”  
  
“Mm hm,” Sam scribbled the name his notebook, then decided to change tack. “Out of curiosity, do you happen to have any of your reports from OSHA?” Because he was feeling smarmy, he added, “I didn’t seem to find any summaries of these reports on Singenta’s website.”  
  
“There’s a section on worker health and safety,” Edgar said.  
  
“Yes, I understand, but it only outlines your policies. Not the results.”  
  
Edgar glowered using only the corners of his eyes. Sam beamed.  
  
*****  
  
Sam emerged from Edgar’s office feeling as if he’d just spent three hours mud wrestling. Which made him think about mud rakers. Which made him gigglesnort at the pun. Which made him think that maybe he  _was_  working too hard.  
  
But it wasn’t as if he could turn around now. Not after so many people had confided how relieved it made them that the media was paying attention. As if it vindicated what they’d seen but been too wary to voice.  
  
Sam focused on that, on the Amy Ponds, as he slowed and finally paused in front of the finance offices. Rm 053 lay within and so did this Meg Masters. And as much as Sam disliked Crowley, the man had also been the one to illuminate (however roundabout) the connection between Lucian and Michael.  
  
And, Sam reminded himself sternly, when else would he have a chance to run around Singenta offices unsupervised? With that ringing in his head, Sam pushed the glass door open.  
  
Room 053 sat near the front of a collection of offices. And was empty. Sam hovered at the open door, peering into an office much livelier than Edgar’s. Posters featuring bands and music festivals covered the walls. A diploma and several framed pictures huddled in one corner of the wall, next to the desk, as if unwilling to mingle with the posters. No kid’s artwork, Sam noted.  
  
“Hey there Bigfoot, you lost?” Sam turned around to find a short woman with scraggling brown hair, a cup of coffee, and a pleasantly round face. Or it would be pleasant, if the woman didn’t have such a smirk, as if she knew some fantastic joke no one else would understand. The end result: a bizarre meeting of cute and dangerous. Sam decided he could imagine this woman interacting with Crowley.  
  
“No, actually,” Sam shook his head. “Are you Meg Masters?”  
  
“Who’s asking?” the-woman-Sam-decided-was-probably-Meg sipped from her coffee, jabbing her eyebrows up.  
  
“Sam Winchester,” Sam reached out a hand but slowly lowered it when Meg ignored it. “I um….” he paused, realizing that he had no idea why Crowley thought Meg would be useful to him. Did it have to do with Michael? Lucian? The Singenta article (somehow)? “I was told you could help me. By a mutual friend,” Sam decided.  
  
“Whoa-ho,” Meg grinned without an ounce of gentleness. “You sound like a bad spy film, bud.” She was right of course. “Who’s the friend?”  
  
“Crowley,” Sam said. “Fergus Crow…ley.” He tapered off and frowned as Meg’s hand tightened around her coffee cup and she threw a look of such venom toward Sam that he wanted to physically duck.  
  
“Fucking hell, get in the fucking office,” she growled. Sam obeyed. Meg did not slam the door, but closed it with restrained anger that was almost worse. She thrust the coffee cup down on her desk then rounded on Sam still standing in the corner.  
  
“Alright Jolly Green,” she stabbed her finger into Sam’s chest. “What the hell is your deal?”  
  
“I—“  
  
“Crowley told me he’d leave me alone for a few months at least!”  
  
“I…don’t really know what you’re talking about.” Meg’s face fell.  
  
“Oh. Oh good lord,” she pinched the bridge of her nose. “He sent me a  _puppy_.” Sam blinked as she whirling around, landing in her chair in a sprawl of limbs. She crossed her arms and stared at Sam as if glaring at him hard enough would make him disappear. Sam was just considering seeing himself out the door when Meg spoke again.  
  
“Alright, you have thirty seconds to explain what you want.” Sam’s face collapsed into a frown. “Twenty-eight.”  
  
“Okay, okay, um,” Sam held out open hands. “I work at the New Eldritch Herald. I used to work at the Los Angeles Times. Michael Alef is my editor-in-chief here and his brother Lucian Morningstar was my editor in Los Angeles and for some reason this makes Michael hate me. And they’re playing chess with me, apparently? Because that’s what they do with people?”  
  
Meg’s face presented a model of disinterest. “Kid, I don’t give two slaps of a witch’s tit about your office politics,” she said. Colorful diction aside, Sam cocked his head when she spoke. Because some of the anger had seeped away, replaced by something approaching curiosity.  
  
“Okay,” Sam spoke clearer. “Because Michael doesn’t like me, I’m working on an independent article about this factory’s safety for its floor workers. Mostly about fluoride poisoning, in case you care. And I just came from an interview with Edgar Valencia and I’m about 99 percent sure he didn’t tell me everything.” He hesitated, unsure what else to talk about.  
  
“Of course he didn’t,” Meg’s arms had uncrossed. “He’s firmly in Roman’s pocket.” She eyed Sam a moment longer, then stood up in one fluid motion. Sam remained quiet as she moseyed toward him, black boots thumping against the industrial carpet. She halted a foot away, hooked her thumbs in her back pockets, and kept staring. Sam chose a spot just at Meg’s neck and felt like a schoolkid waiting to hear his punishment.  
  
“Okay, I get why fuckass sent you,” Meg said. “I want to strangle him for it, but I get it.” Sam raised his eyes hopefully, but Meg looked preoccupied with her own train of thought. “Alright,” she clapped her hands after a moment. “So how much do you know?”  
  
Sam considered this. “Nothing,” he said.  
  
“Oookay,” Meg threw herself back in her chair and grabbed her coffee for a drink, waving her hand at the chair across her desk. Sam obeyed as Meg slammed the coffee down and grimaced in a way that plain coffee should not make people grimace. “Here we go,” Meg steepled her fingers. “Michael is a dick to the nth degree and so was Lucian, and honestly, I’m glad Loo-loo is out of the picture because they were ten times worse together.” She caught sight of Sam’s eyebrows and added, “I used to work at the newspaper. Accounting office.”  
  
Oh. Sam nodded.  
  
“Now, a few months after Lucian stormed out, I quit my job at the newspaper and moved here. Glad I did, because the Herald started to seriously lose revenue. Michael freaked out, ‘cause dick he may be, but he cares about that stupid newspaper like it’s his kid. Probably daddy issues involved in that.” Meg took another grimacing swig from her coffee. “Then about five years ago, I start to notice some weird things in the factory’s financial reports. Basically, money was disappearing, and long story short, I traced it back to the Herald because I’m a fucking genius. This is where it gets murky, but from what I can tell, Michael set up some agreement with Dick Roman—guy who runs this place—and now money is being siphoned into the newspaper. Far as I know, that’s half of what’s keeping that thing afloat.”  
  
A loaded beat of silence.  
  
“So you’re saying Michael’s involved in business malpractice?” Sam interpreted. He could feel his eyes widening. “But…why does it have to be illegal? Can’t Roman donate or something?” Meg snorted and began swiveling her chair back and forth.  
  
“Kid, you think the big boys in corporate would let Dick donate any significant amount of company money to a small town newspaper? That, and can you think of the public reaction? Conflict of interest out the wazoo. Nah, Michael and Dick have some sort of…mutually agreeable arrangement. Michael gets to keep his newspaper alive and Dick gets protection from bad local press. ‘Cause let me tell you, if Michael let his reporters get at it, they’d find a lot more to talk about than the occasional employment statistics. Then there’s talk he wants to get into politics soon so, y’know, having the local newspaper in his pocket would be helpful.”  
  
“Okay,” Sam rubbed at the back of his neck. “Okay. So, Michael’s involved in shady business deals. Noted. But what does Crowley have to do with this?” Meg’s face descended into a thunderstorm again.  
  
“Crowley,”—she said the name like one might say “genital warts” or “Nazis—“is a sonofabitch too smart for his own good.” She sighed heavily before continuing. “Let’s just say that I got really drunk with him a few weeks ago and told him everything I just told you. And let’s say I owe him a massive favor. And let’s add that it’s big enough I’m sitting here talking to you instead of kicking you out of my office.”  
  
“ _Why_?” Sam demanded. “What is Crowley getting at?”  
  
“Don’t try and guess what’s going on in that head,” Meg huffed. “We won’t know until he ends up getting what he wants. Hell, even then we won’t have the full picture.”  
  
“Right,” Sam rubbed at his eyes, struck with the urge to laugh. “Can you at least give a guess?”  
  
“Well you’re a reporter, right?” Meg asked. “Thought you’d be all over this sort of scoop.” The wry humor Sam had seen in the beginning crept back onto her face. She leaned back and swept her open hands apart. “I see it now. ‘Michael Alef is in fact a criminal and a dick: No one surprised.’” Sam snorted despite himself, then grew sober.  
  
“Only that’s not what I want to do. At all.” It was true. Sam had had quite enough of frenzied headlines about corrupt politicians and businesses in Los Angeles. And fine, they could publically disgrace Michael, send him packing, and then what? The newspaper would be left poorer and sans an editor-in-chief. It would probably shut down and suddenly Dean and Castiel and Bobby and Jo would all be without a job.  
  
It took Sam a moment to realize that he was, in fact, considering letting Michael get away with business fraud. Meg seemed to be realizing it too, because she stared at Sam with horrified fascination.  
  
“You really are the BFG,” she shook her head.  
  
“Are you just going down the list of big and tall characters?” Sam asked.  
  
“I was aiming for Sasquatch next,” Meg admitted. She kept her eye on him as she drank from the coffee again. “I dunno what to tell you,” she shrugged. “From what I can tell, Crowley sent you here for information. I’ve given the information. You want to keep it to yourself ‘cause you’re a bleeding heart, be my guest. But now, no offense, I never want to see you again.”  
  
Sam hesitated. “Can I at least have a number? An email address?“  
  
“What part of never want to—“  
  
“Ok, ok, I got it,” Sam stood, hands out. “I’m leaving now.” Meg glared at him all the way to the door.  
  
*****  
  
The photography desk remained empty between Sam’s return and 2 p.m., when Jo came back from an assignment with Becky. At 3 p.m., Sam stepped outside to make a call.  
  
“Human resources, how may I help you?” a male voice asked a few seconds after the front desk secretary had redirected him.  
  
“Hello, I’d like to speak to Susan Cheng.”  
  
“Name?”  
  
“Sam Winchester.”  
  
“Purpose?”  
  
“I’m interested in setting up an interview for an article I’m writing.”  
  
“One moment please,” the secretary said. Elevator music played for a full ten minutes. Sam counted the cars in the parking lot twice. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” the man’s voice reappeared just as Sam was starting on bricks.  
  
“No problem.”  
  
“I can redirect you to the Singenta public relations office.”  
  
“I already spoke to them. I need to talk to Ms. Cheng.” Probably too blunt, but Sam hadn’t been in the mood for finesse for the past week.  
  
“I’m afraid that company policy does not allow the media to access any offices save PR.” Sam blinked.  
  
“I literally just interviewed Edgar Valencia in his office today.”  
  
“Perhaps Mr. Valencia did not understand our policy,” the secretary’s voice grew primmer.  
  
“No one I’ve talked to, no secretary, no employee,  _no one_  said anything about the media being banned.”  
  
“I’m sorry for the confusion. Can I direct you to PR?”  
  
“No.” Sam hung up and kicked at the wall. He could feel his big toe bruise on contact. When he called again, the human resources office didn’t even pick up. When he went inside, Castiel’s desk was still empty. Sam’s texts to him remained unanswered.  
  
Around 4:50 p.m., when Sam had glanced over to the photography desk for the umpteenth time, he finally roused himself to walk over.  
  
Kevin was waiting for Jo to gather her things when Sam arrived. They both looked up at the same time, and in a rush, Sam recalled his first time meeting them over a month ago. It felt more like a year ago.  
  
“Hey Sam,” Kevin brightened. “Looking for Castiel?” Sam offered a sheepish smile.  
  
“He hasn’t answered my texts.”  
  
“Really?“ Jo stashed her camera in her bag. “He’s usually pretty good about that. No idea where he might be.”  
  
“It’s fine,” Sam caught Kevin’s eye and looked away quickly. “Sorry, just thought I’d ask. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”  
  
“That mean you’re ditching your new friends to have lunch with us?” Jo asked with a playful wink.  
  
Sam opened his mouth as Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 filled the air. Kevin fumbled at his pocket until he’d extracted his phone and jammed it against his ear with a “Hey.” Jo paused and watched as Kevin’s face fell.  
  
“Seriously? No I’m not—yeah I know.” Kevin glanced at Jo and scrunched in his eyebrows in a “bad news, sorry,” sort of way. Jo puttered her lips as if unsurprised. “Okay, we’ll set up sometime to meet,” Kevin said into the phone. “Right. Thanks, Charlie.” He hung up with tight lips. “So the comic book store is a no go.”  
  
“Awesome,” Jo dragged her bag off the table and onto her shoulder. “Keep soldiering on, I guess. God, I’m dying for a Chipotle burrito.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah I hear you,” Kevin followed her past Sam, giving him a quick wave as a goodbye. Sam watched them go, wondering why Kevin and Charlie were involved in an article. Or perhaps a photo essay?  
  
Sam let it go and instead perched himself on the edge of Castiel’s desk and pulled out his own phone. He tapped at the keyboard thoughtfully, then dialed Castiel’s number. He listened to the phone ring four times before Castiel’s voice stuttered into existence.  
  
“Hello.”  
  
“Hi, Cas,” Sam leaned back on one arm. “You still on assignment?”  
  
Split second of silence. “Yes.”  
  
“Are you going to be done anytime soon? I have an interview to transcribe and there’s been an um, interesting development.” Sam wished he could spill the day’s events into Castiel’s lap right there and then, to watch Castiel’s careful, considering face and listen to his thought-out opinions. Castiel was  _wise_. He’d know how to handle everything.  
  
“Actually, I’m afraid I have a previous engagement this evening,” Castiel said, and his tone of voice was just off enough to make Sam straighten. “I’m sorry, I should have told you earlier.”  
  
“No, no problem,” Sam said. He slipped off the desk.  
  
“Would you like to tell me what happened? I’m not busy at the moment.”  
  
“It’s not that important. See you tomorrow.”  
  
Sam heard a hitch of breath that might have become a word. Then silence. Then, “Goodbye, Sam.”  
  
Sam hung up and stared down at the phone. He still had a picture of him, Dean and Bobby as the wallpaper. The clock at the top right corner of the screen showed 5:00 p.m., but Sam did not want to go home. He did not want to feel Dean’s eyes on him, or explain why he didn’t have time to watch the game that night. He did not want to give in to the temptation to hunker against Dean like he had as a kid, let Dean casually throw and arm around his shoulder, and blurt every single problem he had until Dean was brushing his hair away from his face and telling him it would be fine.  
  
Sam also did not want to hurt this much at Castiel’s quiet step away from him. He didn’t want to recall their long work nights with such deep fondness. He didn’t want to find himself thinking,  _what would Cas think of this? What would Cas say?_  
  
Sam wanted to stop being dependent. Sam was absolutely dependent.  
  
He walked back to the news desk to find it empty. Zachariah was locking his office behind him and didn’t look at Sam as he left. Sam stood in front of his desk and looked at the dirty messenger bag holding his recorder full of voices he was meant to be representing, his notebook full of research on phosphate fertilizers and how the factory operated, his laptop full of half-formed sentences explaining why anyone at all should care about a few factory workers who said their lungs hurt and their backs ached.  
  
To his mortification, Sam felt a sob roll up from his lungs. He clenched his teeth and grabbed his bag, hustling out of the newsroom like it was on fire. His feet carried him not to the front entrance, but down an echoing stairwell where the chugging of the printing press grew with each step.  
  
Sam emerged into the printing press with no real notion of what he was doing. Dean had undoubtedly gone home by now. No friends heating up leftovers in the break room. Only—  
  
“Sam?”  
  
Sam looked up to find Bobby with a clipboard and a pen, half turned toward him. Sam had no idea what he looked like at that moment, but it must have been bad to elicit that expression on Bobby’s face.  
  
“Hi,” Sam said. His voice came out cracking. Great.  
  
“You look like absolute shit,” Bobby told him, lowering the clipboard.  
  
“Um.”  
  
“What the hell have you been up to? Don’t think I’ve seen you since beginning of last week.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Bobby huffed and strode over to Sam. He grabbed Sam’s chin in calloused fingers and tilted his head down toward him. Sam watched Bobby’s eyes dart across his face before he huffed again and let go.  
  
“Follow me,” he said.  
  
Sam trotted after Bobby like a little kid, hitching his bag’s strap higher on his shoulder. They walked between clattering machines to the back of the room, where a little wooden door led into Bobby’s office and relative quiet. This office was simple and small, but it had pictures all over the walls. Pictures of Sam and Dean mostly, but others featuring Rufus, Ellen and Jo, Officer Mills—who Sam had no idea Bobby even knew—a woman Sam recognized as Bobby’s late wife. Smiles and grimaces and outright laughter captured in glass and paper. Sam wondered if that act of capturing was what endeared Castiel to his photography.  
  
“Talk,” Bobby perched on his desk and gestured to his own chair. Sam plopped into it and noted the lumbar support. Bobby crossed his arms and raised bushy eyebrows.  
  
“I—“ the sound came out as a croak. Sam licked his lips and tried again. “Had a shitty day.”  
  
“What kind of shitty?”  
  
“I’m-not-sure-why-I’m-still-here shitty.”  
  
“Want to quit?”  
  
“No,” Sam whispered, and felt surprised at how true it was. Bobby rubbed at his beard.  
  
“I could ask Rufus to put a good word in for you,” he said. “If they don’t listen to him, Sam, maybe you shouldn’t be putting up—“  
  
“No,” Sam wanted to laugh, because he’d been staring at Bobby in utter confusion for the last five seconds. “No, this isn’t…” Bobby waited, but Sam ducked his head again.  
  
“Listen, ya idjit,” Bobby shifted so he could face Sam better. “You tell me what’s going on and I give you my two cents or you walk out of here and fix it yourself. But you don’t wander in here looking like someone beat you and then act all fucking coy about it.”  
  
This time, Sammy did laugh. Then he started crying. Not sobbing. Nothing too loud or messy. But those were definitely tears streaking across his cheeks. He felt Bobby’s hand come to rest on the back of his neck, and Sam heard himself start to talk.  
  
Fluoride compounds are a byproduct in phosphate fertilizer production. Amy Pond is so tired. He avoids Dean now. He doesn’t want to go home. Crowley is playing him. The Singenta employees just want to be safe at work. Lily Harmon has terrible backaches and no one ever responded to her concerns. Edgar Valencia didn’t want to talk to him. Castiel is risking too much helping him. He doesn’t want him and Dean to become Michael and Lucian. Why is Michael so bitter? Meg told him to blackmail, essentially. Why did Crowley lay this on him? Castiel is getting tired of him.  
  
Sam lost track of whether or not he was making sense. Bobby stayed quiet until Sam’s voice died away, and then some. He patted Sam’s back.  
  
“That’s a lot of shit,” he murmured.  
  
“Others have it worse,” Sam said automatically.  
  
“You suffering in silence doesn’t make their problems any better, believe me on that one.” Bobby’s hand drifted away, and Sam was too embarrassed to ask for it back.  
  
“I’m not asking you for the right answers,” Sam hastened, looking up at Bobby through his hair.  
  
“I’m not giving them,” Bobby assured him. “You think an old mechanic knows anything about corporations? Hell no, I’d just screw you up.” He frowned. “I can give decent advice on one area though.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Yeah, ‘oh.’” Bobby’s eyes lightened. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people as bullheaded as you and your brother.”  
  
“Cheers, Bobby.”  
  
“You know what I’m about to say, don’t you?” Sam grunted noncommittally. “I admit, I’m not really the role model here for healthy relationships. But for Pete’s sake Sam, why the hell aren’t you telling  _Dean_ any of this?”  
  
“I don’t want to rely on him,” Sam said in a mutter.  
  
“Bullshit. Try again.” Sam looked up at Bobby with a frown.  
  
“That’s it though,” he said. “I’ve been…too dependent on him in the past. I need to learn how to deal with my own problems. And he needs to learn not to kill himself solving everything for me.”  
  
“Maybe I’d’ve bought that when you were still kids. But you’ve been dealing with your own problems the last eight damn years,” Bobby jabbed his finger at Sam. “That’s all you’ve been doing is dealing with your own problems, not letting anyone else get close. What, you think needing help is you being weak?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“You sure act like it,” Bobby rolled his eyes and readjusted his hat. “You want to know what I think? I think you’ve been convincing yourself that you don’t deserve Dean’s help or attention or whatever.”  
  
“What? No,” Sam blanched, even as he felt the words ring like a tuning fork.  
  
“Of course you do,” Bobby growled. “Typical Winchester, you and Dean pull the exact same shit your old man did. Telling yourself you’re not good enough, up and down, ‘til it reaches the point that asking for some fucking help makes you break out in hives.”  
  
“Look who’s talking!”  
  
“This ain’t about me, Sam Winchester!”  
  
“I…” Sam couldn’t even finish the rebuttal. He’d already forgotten it. Instead he looked down at the desk, pitted with nicks.  
  
“Try that first,” Bobby’s voice came gentler. “I know rebuilding bridges is hard and nasty, but at least this one ain’t burnt yet. Dean wants to do it. He wants to reach out to you so bad, and I’ve kept my peace, but now I’m telling you to do it now, or lose him.”  
  
Sam nodded once, hard, then shot up to wrap his arms around Bobby’s neck. The man let out a few cusses, another several sputters, then wrapped Sam in a bear hug.  
  
“Thanks,” Sam mumbled.  
  
“Idjit.”  
  
*****  
  
 **To:** Raphael Dusan  
 **From:** Michael Alef  
 **Subject:** mmeting  
  
You’re not answering your phone. We need to talk. I just got a call; Winchester interviewed the director of operations today. R isn’t happy. Don’t use email, call me back.  
  
*****  
  
Castiel went to bed early, so he was already half asleep when Sam called at 11 p.m.  
  
“H’lo?” he slurred.  
  
“Hi,” Sam sounded like he was whispering. “Sorry, did I wake you up?”  
  
“No,” Castiel lied. He shifted under his sheets so he was lying on his back. “How are you?”  
  
“Better,” Sam said, and something in Castiel’s chest unclenched at the way Sam sounded downright normal. “I wanted to tell you,” Sam hesitated. “I um….I told Dean everything about Michael and what we’re doing. And a little more besides.”  
  
“Did you?” Castiel felt his eyebrows rise. “That’s good. I’m glad to hear it.”  
  
“Yeah.” Castiel heard fabric shifting. “You didn’t have any prior engagements today, did you?”  
  
“Er.”  
  
“It’s okay, Dean said he talked to you today and it wasn’t hard to extrapolate after that.”  
  
“He just seemed very…earnest,” Castiel explained. “And I don’t want you two have have another falling out. But I didn’t want to make you feel like I was forcing you into anything.”  
  
“Don’t worry,” Sam chuckled. “Bobby covered that end.” Castiel smiled into the darkness, unable to help it.  
  
“Did you tackle…the larger issues?” he asked. Sam remained silent for a long time, and when he spoke, he sounded thoughtful.  
  
“I didn’t want to add that to tonight,” he said. “Dean was already ready to drive over to Michael’s house and strangle him. Hell, Crowley and Lucian too.” Castiel could imagine it all too well.  
  
“He cares about you.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Castiel licked his lips and asked, “What happened eight years ago?” When Sam didn’t answer immediately, he added, “You don’t have to tell me.”  
  
“I want to,” Sam said. His voice had lowered. “I guess…see, growing up, Dean and I, we were sort of the only people we had. Our mom died in a house fire when I was six months old. After that, our dad moved us around a lot. A lot of odd jobs and hotel rooms. I don’t think I ever stayed in one town longer than a few months. And I think it would have been okay, but over the years dad started drinking and,” an inhale rattled across the speaker. “There were stretches of time when a good night meant he ignored us or passed out on the couch. Then he’d cycle into being our dad again, take us out to get ice cream sort of thing. Until it nosedived again. ” Castiel had grown very still. “So Dean really ended up raising me. He was…I mean, if I had trouble with homework or needed school supplies, I never went to dad about it. I went to Dean.  
  
“As we got older, I started getting more tired of our lives. Tired of always moving and tiptoeing around dad. And, y’know, college seemed like the perfect way to escape. I think applying for college and scholarships was the first thing I did without telling Dean about it. When I told him about my full ride to Stanford, I think I…broke something. But we never got to fix it. Because when I told dad later that night, we got in a massive argument. He told me I was abandoning the family, so I told him he’d abandoned us a long time ago and walked out. Dean…Dean drove me down to the bus station.” Silence. “I  _told_  him to come with me. I told him we could find a cheap apartment and I’d get a part-time job. But he just…God, I’ll never forget this, he said, ‘Someone’s got to stay here and hold things together.’ As if there was anything left to hold together.” A sound that might have been a laugh. “Dean just had to be the martyr again, shackling himself to people who can’t care about him half as much as he cares about them.”  
  
Castiel rubbed at his eyes and listened as Sam breathed, in and out.  
  
“Are you talking about your father?” he asked. “Or yourself?”  
  
“You and Bobby been comparing notes?”  
  
“No,” Castiel said, confused.  
  
“I dunno,” Sam said in a mumble. “Both, probably.”  
  
“Is your father still around?”  
  
“Died in a car crash about three years ago. I didn’t go to the funeral.” A beat of silence. “You know, Dean and I haven’t really lived together since I left for Stanford. We’ve talked on the phone loads and he came down to visit a bunch of times. But never more than that.”  
  
“Now you see each other every day.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam admitted. “I think that’s why I started not wanting to go home. I didn’t want to face the fact that I’d hurt him and wasn’t willing to fix it.”  
  
“You want to fix it now?”  
  
“I think so. Yes.”  
  
“Well then,” Castiel said, “as I’ve said, you two are light years ahead of me and Jimmy.”  
  
“You want to delve into  _your_  screwed up family now?”  
  
“Not particularly,” Castiel said. “There wasn’t much screwed up about us. Perhaps my father could have been around more, but I had a mother. I’m fairly certain that my estrangement with Jimmy is purely a result of our own pride.”  
  
“Pride?”  
  
“I’m very prideful, Sam, you have to have noticed.”  
  
“Not really.” Castiel scrunched his face at the ceiling.  
  
“Aloof then.”  
  
“Maybe. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person.” Castiel didn’t know how to answer that. Perhaps Sam noticed his discomfort, because he said, “By the way, Dean had a proposition, or more of a demand. He wants us to interview Benny at our house tomorrow.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“He wants to be involved, I think.” Castiel definitely noted a hint of pride in Sam’s voice.  
  
“That’s fine with me,” Castiel said. “More than fine.” And at that moment a glimmer of an idea fell into Castiel’s head. Nothing big. But it was enough to catch Castiel’s eye. And after a long, hard look, he set it aside to consider later. “I’m certain Dean will be invaluable,” he told Sam.  
  
“He can threaten Singenta into actually have a conversation with us,” Sam muttered.  
  
“Oh. The interview didn’t go well?” Sam snorted, then described his experiences with Edgar and the human resources office. “That’s not even the best part,” Sam continued. “Crowley got me into his office today.”  
  
“Crowley?”  
  
“Spouted stuff about Michael and Lucian using me in their game of chess, then sent me off to talk to someone called Meg Masters who, get this, works as Singenta’s financial officer.”  
  
Castiel blanched.  
  
“Meg Masters?” he asked. “Short, brown hair, supremely rude?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Oh God.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Oh  _God_.”  
  
“Cas, what? Is she related to someone too?” Sam asked. “Raphael’s cousin? What?”  
  
“I used to date her,” Castiel said in a faint voice.  
  
“ _Oh God_.”  
  
“Maybe date is too strong a word.”  
  
“You and  _Meg_?”  
  
“More, she found me interesting for some reason—“  
  
“How are you two even compatible?”  
  
“—and I went along with it because she’s a fascinating person, once you get past the swearing and ruthlessness and drinking—“  
  
“Cas.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I don’t need the details.”  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
A moment of silence, and suddenly laughter burst through the speaker. Castiel found himself giggling along. He couldn’t help it. Someone echoed in the background, and Sam hitched his laughter to a stop. Castiel listened to Sam shouting something, followed by an echoing reply.  
  
“Are we keeping Dean up?” Castiel asked.  
  
“Nah, he’s just being a grump because I didn’t let him beat up Michael,” Sam assured him around another laugh. “Okay, sorry, I’m just…you and Meg. Wow.”  
  
“Wow indeed,” Castiel rolled his eyes. “What did she have to say?”  
  
“First she yelled at me,” Sam’s voice turned sober. “Then she told me that…well, it turns out that Dick Roman, the guy in charge of the factory, is funneling money to Michael so he can keep the Herald alive.” Castiel stared up at the ceiling, then slowly brought his free hand up to his temple.  
  
“You’re serious.” His voice sounded distant, even to himself.  
  
“As a heart attack.”  
  
“I wouldn’t have guessed…could Meg be lying? I wouldn’t put it past her.”  
  
“Why would she lie about something like that?” Sam asked, voice glum. Castiel had to concede that wasn’t Meg’s style. “So you get why I’m sort of in a bind? I don’t want to kill the newspaper, I really don’t. But what else would happen if I made this public?”  
  
“You could blackmail,” Castiel tried, then blinked hard. Since when had “blackmail” and “Michael” ever come into the same thought process?  
  
“And then what? Michael will just hate me even more.”  
  
Castiel ran a hand through his hair.  
  
“You’ve told Dean this?”  
  
“And Bobby.”  
  
“What did they have to say?”  
  
“Bobby, nothing. Dean didn’t know what to tell me.”  
  
“Then maybe we should all meet up somewhere and really discuss this,” Castiel said. “We don’t need to do this alone, Sam.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Castiel bit his lip and added, ”You could quit. Leave all this mess behind.”  
  
“I could,” Sam agreed. “But I don’t want to.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because you guys are here.”  
  
Castiel didn’t say anything. But he did bury his face into his pillow and squinch his eyes shut. A moment later Michael and blackmail fell away, and he grinned so hard his cheeks hurt.


	12. Chapter 12

 

> _“A good newspaper, I suppose, is a nation talking to itself.”_  
>  _\- Arthur Miller_

 

 **The New Eldritch Herald – Friday, August 9, 2013**  
  
 **Fremont County Health Board introduces new vaccine program**  
By Garth Fitzgerald IV – With flu season approaching, the Fremont County Health Board approved a program on Thursday night aimed at providing vaccinations to a much larger percentage of the county.  
  
 **Baby Boom: Six newborns made Fremont County history on Thursday**  
By Becky Rosen – For the first time ever, Fremont County Municipal Hospital delivered three sets of twins in one day.  
  
 **Heat wave interrupts an otherwise cool summer**  
By Bela Talbot – A week of above-90 highs has driven people inside or to the pool.  
Photos by Jo Harvelle  
…  
….  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Balthazar Peters  
 **Subject:** Birthday!!  
  
Dear all,  
  
Please join me in wishing our very own Samandriel Agnelli a very happy 27th birthday. (Though if we’re all being perfectly honest, he looks more like he’s 12. We’ll get the secret out of him one day.) In honor of the anniversary of Samandriel’s birth, we’re serving cupcakes and punch in the newsroom break room. Any and all are welcome to partake. All it costs is one of the following:  
1)   A Happy Birthday pinch  
2)   A Happy Birthday spank  
3)   A Happy Birthday smooch  
4)   A Happy Birthday stripper  
5)   A verbal “Happy Birthday!”  
I know which one I’m doing.  
Plans for the bar tonight are pending, text me if interested.  
  
Balthazar  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Samandriel Agnelli  
 **Subject:** Re: Birthday!!  
  
Thank you everyone for the birthday wishes, but please don’t hire an actual stripper. This is mainly for Gabe and Balthazar.  
  
Samandriel  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Gabe Lokey  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: Birthday!!  
  
So what you’re saying is that everything else on the list is fair game.  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Samandriel Agnelli  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Birthday!!  
  
What I’m saying is that the stripper is the only thing I might convince you two is a bad idea. If I argued against anything else, you both would ignore me and do it anyway.  
  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Balthazar Peters  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Re: Birthday!!  
  
Not to worry, Samandriel, we’re saving the stripper for tonight.  
  
*****  
  
Castiel took until mid-morning the next day to act on his idea. He’d been trying not to mull over it too much, letting his subconscious analyze it for him. But once he had three extra people huddled around Jo’s computer, it became impossible to ignore.  
  
“What about the community garden?” Anna asked, chin just hovering over Jo’s shoulder. “That’s cute and friendly, right?”  
  
“It’s  _plants_ ,” Jo sighed. Her head was propped on her other arm, staring at her computer screen sideways. “We need something that moves.”  
  
“Get people picking vegetables,” Anna said reasonably.  
  
“Fine. Kevin, call the community garden person.”  
  
“Want to get me a number?”  
  
Castiel snuck a glance over and found four similarly taut faces.  
  
“I don’t think they have a website,” Jo lifted her head slightly, scrolling down a Google search results page.  
  
“Community gardens tend not to,” Charlie mused. Jo released a low, muffled groan.  
  
“I have a proposition,” Castiel spoke up. Four faces looked up at him, causing Castiel to turn in his seat so he could face them properly. “It’s a bit controversial,” he warned. “But what do you know about fertilizer production?”  
  
Five minutes later, Anna dragged a confused Sam to the photography desk. Castiel tried to apologize via eyebrow as she and Jo simultaneously asked for permission to hop onto Sam’s story.  
  
“You sure you want to do this?” Sam asked, eyebrows high, once he’d caught onto their meaning. “The Garrison is probably going to turn it down cold.”  
  
“As if we have any better ideas right now,” Anna told him. “Besides, this is real.” She looked around at Jo, Charlie and Kevin. “I mean, we’re willing to do this, right?”  
  
“Absolutely,” Kevin nodded. “If the Garrison doesn’t want it, who says we can’t make it an accompanying piece to your article when you publish it?”  
  
“Forget that,” Charlie added, grinning like a wildcat. “I’m the Webmaster. The New Eldritch Herald website is my bitch.”  
  
“And then you get fired,” Jo reminded her. She looked at Sam. “Yes, we want to do this if you’ll let us in.”  
  
“I…yeah, if you want to,” Sam caught Castiel’s eye, and the look of supreme bewilderment and excitement and gratitude made Castiel clench his fists in a spike of adrenaline.  
  
“Now, I understand you’re interviewing someone tomorrow night?” Anna asked, pulling Sam’s attention back to her.  
  
“Benny Lafitte, yeah.”  
  
“Ok.” Anna nodded, face determined. “I have a proposition.”  
  
*****  
  
Castiel parked behind Sam’s car on Saturday night and took a moment to check that his hair didn’t look too mussed up. Then he hurried out of the car in case someone caught him preening. Rose hued clouds scudded across the sky as Castiel rounded to the passenger seat and ducked to retrieve the fruit and veggie platter he’d picked up from Hy-Vee on the way here. The grape tomatoes would no doubt be tasteless, but Castiel hoped Sam appreciated the gesture.  
  
Bobby answered the door with a beer in one hand and the TV blaring in the background.  
  
“Hey kid,” Bobby adjusted his cap.  
  
“Hello, Bobby,” Castiel felt a genuine grin flow across his face as he stepped into the house. “How have you been?”  
  
“Eh, usual. Makin’ sure these princesses don’t get their panties too much in a twist,” Bobby’s eyes crinkled at the edges.  
  
“Cas!” All 6’4’’ of Sam showed up in a barreling mass. Again: the dog. Castiel couldn’t get away from the dog comparisons.  
  
The next second, Castiel found himself caught up in a slightly sweaty bear hug. Castiel had to hold the tray out awkwardly to the side, and he wasn’t sure how to make a one-armed hug feel genuine, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care either. Especially not when Sam pulled back to reveal deep dimples and rosy cheeks and Castiel found himself wondering,  _how on earth did this man and I get to be…_  
  
It took a moment to find the word, embarrassingly enough. Friends. Yes, Castiel admitted. They’d beyond a doubt become friends. The thought made something bloom inside Castiel.  
  
“I brought a fruit and vegetable tray,” Castiel said, holding the tray in front of him like an offering.  
  
“Nice!” Sam accepted the tray. “I managed to wrangle a fruit salad out of Dean, but he drew the line at the rabbit food.”  
  
“Hey! We’ve got onion, lettuce and tomato for the burgers,” Dean’s voice drifted from the kitchen. “Besides, it’s a  _barbeque_. The whole idea is meat and fire.”  
  
“Absolutely,” Sam called back, sending Castiel a wide grin. Castiel grinned back despite himself as he followed Sam into the kitchen.  
  
“Look, it’s got ranch dip,” Sam approached Dean where he stood next to several packs of uncooked sausages and burgers (and one box of frozen veggie burgers for Kevin). He showed him the tray. “I’ll bet it’s not even low fat. Good enough?”  
  
“Christ’s sake,” Dean rolled his eyes, but Castiel also saw the humor in his countenance. “Put it on the table. Bobby, you want to see how the grill is going?”  
  
Castiel stationed himself just inside the kitchen and watched Bobby follow Sam into the backyard. Dean glanced up at him, hands stilling.  
  
“Hey, Cas,” he said.  
  
“Hello, Dean.”  
  
“Were you taught to say that?”  
  
“I’m sorry?”  
  
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ‘hey’ or ‘hi.’ Always a real formal hello.”  
  
“I don’t…I suppose it’s habit.” Castiel watched Dean cautiously, but all he found was easy humor. His and Sam’s talk last night must have done both of them good.  
  
“So I’m sorry for the other day,” Dean turned to face Castiel properly, hands coming up to rest against the countertop. “Sam told me I was being a dick.”  
  
“I don’t think so,” Castiel said slowly. “Considering your situation, I think you could have acted much worse.” Dean’s face slipped into an expression that Castiel couldn’t interpret quickly enough.  
  
“You’ve been good to him,” Dean said. Castiel remained silent, unsure of how to answer. Dean cocked his head and grinned carefully. “Really, he said you made sure he didn’t get alcohol poisoning two weeks ago.”  
  
“I don’t think he was in any real danger of alcohol poisoning.”  
  
“Yes he was,” Dean said with all the authority of an older brother. “That kid doesn’t drink until he needs to drown himself.”  
  
“I see,” Castiel said. “Then, you’re welcome, I suppose.” Dean looked up as Sam clattered the screen door open.  
  
“Any idea when Jo and the rest are showing?” Sam asked, and Castiel shook his head.  
  
“I’m getting these on the grill now, anyway,” Dean began stacking the packages of meat in his arms. “No need to make people wait.”  
  
“Make sure you make enough for one more,” Sam waved his phone. “Benny just called and said he’s bringing a plus one.”  
  
“What, like a wife?”  
  
“A coworker.”  
  
Sam caught Castiel’s eye as Dean made a noncommittal ‘shouldn’t be a problem,’ and made his way outside.  
  
“Did he give a name?” Castiel rounded on Sam as the door slammed shut. “Is it someone we’ve already spoken to?”  
  
“He didn’t say.” Sam frowned down at his phone another minute before he stuck it back in his pocket. “Do you think this is stupid?” he asked Castiel. “Once Dean heard how many people were showing up, he insisted we needed to feed everyone, and then that turned into an outright summer barbeque and—“  
  
“I think it’s a good gesture.”  
  
“It’s unprofessional,” Sam made a face.  
  
“Sam, how many business deals do you think happen at social gatherings?” Castiel asked. Sam’s shoulders lowered. “Food and good company makes people relax. It will be fine.” Sam nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets and looked to the right.  
  
“We’ve never had a barbeque before,” he muttered, just loud enough to be heard. Castiel’s mouth braided into a smile even as something in his chest broke.  
  
“Then it’ll be a learning experience,” Castiel placed a hand on Sam’s elbow and led him toward the door.  
  
Charlie, Kevin and Anna showed up ten minutes later, tailed by Jo and Ellen. Amy and Jacob Pond arrived in an old red truck, followed by a mini-van and several cars (and one van) full of familiar faces. Castiel ticked the names off in his head: Lily, Ajay, Jake, Scott, Max, Andy (Castiel wasn’t sure how he’d heard about this), Portia, Lenore. A few people had asked to bring family, and Sam hadn’t been able to refuse them, so the end result was a good-sized crowd that filled the big backyard up to the tree line.  
  
It looked downright movie-worthy in the golden afternoon sunlight, Castiel thought as he snapped a few pictures. A few of the kids had found a Frisbee and their lithe bodies made artwork when they leapt for it. People greeted each other and introduced husbands and wives, girlfriends and boyfriends. Dean looked absolutely in his element as he stood over the grill, joking and shaking hands, and crouching down to ask kids their names. Sam did the tall person slouch, but otherwise looked competent and welcoming as he moved from person to person.  
  
Nearly everyone, it turned out, had ignored Sam’s promise they had enough food, and brought their own desserts and salads and appetizers. The old picnic table soon had platters sticking precariously off its edges, and Castiel found himself keeping an eye on Ajay’s tiny daughter whenever she stumbled over to the table with curious hands.  
  
Drinks had just been poured and the first burgers were coming off the grill (Kevin and Lenore had to promise Dean several times that veggie burgers hot all the way through could be considered done) when Benny rounded the corner of the house, followed by a woman in a smart red dress. Sam caught sight of them the same time as Castiel, and as if in unspoken agreement, they both made their way over to the pair.  
  
“Hi, Benny,” Sam shook the man’s hand. “Glad you could make it.”  
  
“Don’t think I could’ve backed out, once I heard y’all were throwing a party for me,” Benny said, eyes warm. He turned to the woman beside him. “This is Kali Malhotra, our assistant director of operations.” Castiel felt his eyes widen as Sam stiffened beside him.  
  
“Pleased to meet both of you,” Kali extended a slim hand that gave a surprisingly firm grip.  
  
“Same. More than the same,” a hesitant grin had slid across Sam’s face. “I…not to be rude but…”  
  
“Why am I here?” Kali asked, voice wry.  
  
“Your secretary made it very clear that you were unavailable,” Sam admitted.  
  
“I was unavailable,” Kali shrugged. “And now I’m not. We can discuss the details while we eat, can’t we?”  
  
“Yes,” Sam nodded, glancing over at Castiel as if for confirmation. “Yes, absolutely.” Kali nodded graciously and strode past them. Sam ducked his head toward Benny as the three men followed.  
  
“Did you talk to her or…?”  
  
“Nothing like that,” Benny muttered back. “She called me into her office and asked about you. And I mentioned this shin-dig and she asked if she could tag along.” He suddenly gave Sam and Castiel a wary look. “Kali’s…trustworthy,” he said. “She can be a hammer sometimes, but she’s the most straightforward person who works in that place.”  
  
Castiel frowned at Benny, confused at the defensiveness in his voice. It dawned on him a moment later.  
  
“We’re not here to label the workers as the heroes and management as evil,” Castiel piped up, making Benny and Sam turn toward him. “Everyone in this story has their own voice. We’re just interested in the right balance of voices that reveals the truth of the situation.” He hesitated before adding, “If people like Edgar Valencia have fallen out of our graces, it’s because they’ve been obstructers to the truth. If Kali is willing to be honest with us, then absolutely she should be here.” Two pairs of eyes, one blue one hazel, stared at him.  
  
“Thought you were the one taking pictures, not writing,” Benny finally chuckled.  
  
“I’ve written,” Castiel glanced away, feeling his ears turn warm. He didn’t even want to see Sam’s expression at that moment.  
  
“So, Benny,” Sam said, leaving Castiel with a sweep of relief. “The way we’re seeing this work is: anyone who wants, can sit down with Jo’s crew and do a video interview, basically about the same stuff they talked to me about. I think you and Kali (and Andy but I’m not counting him) are the only ones I haven’t talked to, so you’ll have about six reporters ganging up on you when you’re interviewed. Sorry about that.”  
  
“I can handle it,” Benny promised.  
  
“Oy, Sammy!” Dean’s voice carried across the yard. “Take over a minute, will ya?”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam called back, then said to Benny, “Here, I’m going to make you meet my brother, I think you guys’ll get along.” Castiel stood to the side as Sam and Benny departed.  
  
Releasing a massive sigh, he looked around at the yard again. If he’d been Jimmy, he thought vaguely, he’d be among the crowd chatting and meeting people. But somehow, despite their identical DNA, Jimmy had mastered the social world while Castiel remained reserved. Their father used to joke that they obviously shared one personality split down the middle.  
  
Castiel pulled his camera up into his hands again and settled into the role he knew best: the observer.  
  
The light was edging toward dim when Sam found Castiel again, crouched among a flyaway bush trying to get the greenery to frame a picture of the crowd. He appeared in Castiel’s viewfinder as a swiftly approaching figure, and Castiel snapped a picture.  
  
“Jo’s starting to get edgy about the lighting,” Sam said as Castiel straightened. “I think we should get this show on the road. People have little kids, they’ll want to get home.”  
  
“Of course,” Castiel nodded, and couldn’t help the bubble of fondness at the expression on Sam’s face. “Are you nervous?”  
  
“No,” Sam scowled. Castiel lifted his eyebrows. Sam resisted another few seconds before he tilted his head back and groaned at the sky. “I have no idea how,” he pointed a finger at Castiel, “but you’re almost as bad as Dean.”  
  
“As good as Dean, you mean,” Castiel said. “Why are you nervous? Everyone seems to be having fun.”  
  
Sam opened his mouth. Closed it. Jammed his hands in his pockets. Kicked at the grass. Castiel had to struggle valiantly against the urge to laugh.  
  
“This is…” Sam finally gestured helplessly. “We’re inviting these people to my  _house_. We’re feeding them and meeting their families and talking about the Jayhawk’s chances for next season. And then we’re sticking them in front of a camera and discussing how their workplace might be  _poisoning_  them.”  
  
“They’re not sources anymore,” Castiel interpreted. “They’re people.”  
  
“They were always people,” Sam snapped. “No, it’s not that, it’s…what happens to them from this point on, it’s not just going to interest me professionally or in the way you care about other humans’ generic well-being. It’s going to matter the way you care about friends.” Sam started to say something, faltered, then said, “It’s getting personal.”  
  
“And you’ve never had that happen?” Castiel asked, tilting his head.  
  
“Yeah. A few times. That story on the juvenile court system, especially. It scared me.”  
  
“What about that veteran you talked to in college? Your big epiphany?”  
  
“I never saw him again,” Sam insisted. “I never invited him to my  _house_.”  
  
“Hm.” Castiel settled his camera against his chest and looked into the forest to gather his thoughts. “Have you ever read the series of articles, ‘Aids in the Heartland?’” he asked.  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“The journalist who wrote them spoke at my college,” Castiel said. “She was very dedicated to her work. This series, it follows a gay couple in rural Minnesota. One of them battles and eventually dies of AIDS.” Sam inhaled. “It’s a beautiful piece,” Castiel continued. “Won a Pulitzer Prize. And when she spoke to us, she described how incredibly close she got to these men. She became their friend, Sam. She joined them for supper and exchanged Christmas gifts and when the family was deciding whether to take one of them off of life support, they wanted her opinion.” Castiel glanced to Sam to find a pinched expression.  
  
“I’ve gotten very close to sources before,” Castiel said. “But I believe it’s entirely possible to be a human being and a reporter at the same time. I’d almost call it imperative.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam rubbed at the side of his face, looking into the middle distance. A long minute. “Yeah.” Castiel waited, letting the warm summer breeze ruffle his and Sam’s hair like an affectionate aunt. When Sam dropped his hand from his face, he was smiling slightly.  
  
“You’re really pumping out the inspirational speeches,” he said. “I think you need to think about a career change.”  
  
“Writing is intolerable,” Castiel said. “The lack of color besides black and white is depressing.” And it really shouldn’t have gratified Castiel when Sam choked out a bark of laughter.  
  
*****  
  
“Okay, okay, that,” Kevin jabbed at the computer screen with his pencil. “That quote, that’s perfect.”  
  
“Noted,” Charlie scribbled something in her notebook before hitting play. Portia’s voice filled the living room again.  
  
Castiel shifted on the couch, tucking one leg beneath him and leaning against the armrest. He, Jo and Kevin were lined up on the couch Sam usually used as his bed, watching interviews on Charlie’s laptop. Charlie and Sam sat at the couch’s feet while Bobby leaned forward from the armchair.  
  
In the kitchen, Ellen, Dean, and Anna packed up leftovers, their low voices filtering into the living room. The window was black and spattered with moths trying to battle their way inside. The last guests had left nearly an hour ago.  
  
Everyone smelled like smoke and gently dried sweat. Castiel felt a little too full, edging toward sleepy, and had Sam’s long, solid torso leaning against his leg. He could probably have stayed there for hours.  
  
“I say we make her one of our main voices,” Jo mentioned as Portia began getting off topic. “She has a lot of good things to say.”  
  
“Think she’ll let us film her doing something at her home?” Kevin asked. “Getting ready and driving to work, maybe.”  
  
“I think she’d be cool with it,” Jo mused, making another note. “Man, b-roll is going to be a  _bitch_.”  
  
“Secret cameras,” Charlie said in a singsong voice. “We’ll be the next ‘To Catch a Predator.’” Castiel felt Sam’s body jump with a huff of laughter.  
  
They finished Portia’s interview and moved on to Kali’s. Now Castiel straightened, as did everyone else. As their sole non-factory worker, Kali held a special fascination. They first watched her discuss her role in the company, helping to regulate and communicate the factory’s daily goings on. Every floor, every shipment.  
  
Ellen appeared to perch on Bobby’s seat’s armchair as behind-the-camera Jo interrupted the interview to zoom in.  
  
“I liked it better before,” Sam said, earning himself a “hush” from Jo.  
  
“I think you mentioned this earlier,” Sam’s tinny voice came from off-camera. “But why are you here?” Kali smiled, but it was not necessarily a kind or warm smile.  
  
“I’m considering asking you to turn the camera off for this,” she said. “But I suppose if I get in trouble, I might as well do it properly. Mr. Winchester, your presence has not gone unnoticed. Both in the parking lot in the mornings and your eventual requests for interviews.”  
  
“I knew someone was watching us,” Sam of the present muttered up to Castiel. Castiel responded by pressing his leg briefly into Sam’s back.  
  
“Mr. Roman has not acknowledged it…outright. But he did…I suppose choose is the correct term. Yes, he chose Edgar Valencia to be available to you. I believe he asked our main secretary to direct you to his office.”  
  
“So he didn’t want me talking to you?” camera Sam asked.  
  
“Or anyone else,” Kali crossed her legs. “Edgar is unusually loyal to Roman. I think Roman suspected others might speak their own thoughts rather than Singenta’s.” Someone laughed in the background. Kali’s eyes lightened. “In any case,” she continued. “I grew curious about gossip of a reporter calling around. I can’t recall the last time the media’s tried to speak to anyone beyond our PR office. I knew Benny, and asked him about it. He informed me of you and Mr. Novak, and permitted me to come along with him. And here I am.”  
  
“But why do you want to talk to us at all?” Sam insisted. “You could have ignored this.”  
  
“Part of it is annoyance at Dick,” Kali shrugged unapologetically. “It’s far from the first time he’s pulled something like that. Second: I am a practical woman. And it is not practical to look like the heartless corporation when workers are talking to the media. Tell me, is there anything so damning as a man like Edgar swearing up and down that there’s no problem? Especially when the evidence to the contrary is so…compelling?”  
  
“Benny was right,” Castiel said aloud. “She’s terrifyingly straightforward.”  
  
“And third,” Kali paused as several shouting children passed off-screen. “Third, I know for a fact that the filters on the production line—the ones meant to screen dangerous chemical compounds—haven’t been changed in nearly ten years. I’m not the least bit surprised they’re failing.”  
  
Castiel had to casually drape a hand over his mouth to hide the smile as Charlie shouted “BOOM!” Jo followed up with “oh snap!” and they reached for a high five.  
  
“Guys,” Kevin said in a voice only half warning.  
  
“Shut up Kevin, that is gold,” Jo told him.  
  
“Is replacing parts not under your jurisdiction?” Castiel’s voice asked. The corner of Kali’s mouth quirked.  
  
“I have some power in that office,” Kali said. “But not enough to override Edgar’s ultimate decisions. I can’t say for sure, but I believe he’s been following the ‘we can do it next year’ thought process.”  
  
“I’m still not sure why she agreed to this,” Castiel murmured to Sam as on-camera Jo asked something about OSHA reports.  
  
“You heard her. This is totally political.” Sam leaned his head back to peer up at Castiel, his head resting against his knee in the process. “Maybe there’s some concern for the workers, but honestly? It involves alliances and grudges we couldn’t pick out for the life of us.”  
  
“I wonder if all workplaces have such intense office politics,” Castiel said. Sam shrugged.  
  
“Hey,” his voice came low a minute later, running beneath Charlie’s commentary and Kali’s on-screen voice. “Thanks.”  
  
“What for?” Castiel asked blankly.  
  
“Everything.” Sam’s lips folded into a quiet smile; almost boyish in its sweetness. “Things would have been a lot more stressful without you around so…thanks.” Castiel reflected that he could have said a lot of things. ‘But you have Dean, and he’d do anything for you.’ ‘You’re underestimating your strength and goodness of heart, Sam.’ ‘You’d have managed somehow.’  
  
Castiel didn’t say any of those things. Instead he settled back in the couch and jostled Sam with his leg. Sam elbowed him hard in the knee in retaliation.


	13. Chapter 13

 

> _“If journalism is good, it is controversial, by its nature.”_  
>  _\- Julian Assange_

_  
_**The New Eldritch Herald - Monday, August 12, 2013**  
  
 **Retailers see slow start to back-to-school season**  
By Uriel Benedict – Consumers are holding off on back-to-school shopping, leaving many retailers in the red.  
  
 **Car crash on I-70 kills two**  
By Tessa Harvester – A three-car pileup Monday morning left the driver of one car and a passenger of another dead. Others involved have been taken to Fremont County Municipal Hospital.  
  
 **100 years of justice**  
By Castiel Novak – Courthouses have long held important standing in American communities. Here are five that have been part of Central Kansas for the past century.  
  
 **Football season…**  
 **…**  
 **…**  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Charlie Bradbury  
 **Subject:** New feature in submission form  
  
Hello all,  
  
There’s a new feature in the online submission form that will hopefully make things easier for everyone, but mainly for our intrepid editors. When you submit your article, you should find a brand new section that will ask you to list your sources and ways we can contact them. I know this might take a little extra time, but it’s going to make the editing process way easier, believe me.   
  
Charlie  
  
P.S. – This was Naomi’s idea and has her full backing, so if you want to complain about it, go to her. : )  
  
  
 **To:** Zachariah Smith  
 **From:** Raphael Dusan  
 **Subject:** Meeting  
  
Zachariah,  
  
I’m sorry, but we’ll have to postpone our meeting by about an hour. There’s something Michael and I need to attend to as soon as possible.  
  
Raphael  
  
*****  
  
Sam entered the newsroom in far too cheerful a mood for a Monday. Objectively, he recognized this. Practically speaking, he couldn’t care less.  
  
He, Castiel, Jo, Anna, Kevin and Charlie had effectively had a weekend-long focus group on where the article and video needed to go. They’d cycled through Dean’s house, the Roadhouse, and Anna’s apartment, hashing out ideas and arguing over what they did or didn’t need to say. Ellen, Dean, and Bobby acted as sounding boards, referees of the more intense arguments and overall commentators.  
  
The end result: the outline for a story much larger than Sam had initially imagined.  
  
On Sunday night, Sam had pounded out a solid 2,000 words that—finally—sounded like something he’d actually want to read. Sam could barely recall the last time he’d written in such depth about a given topic, and he suspected he’d gotten rusty.  
  
“Most likely,” Castiel had told him when Sam voiced this thought, sitting on the other side of Dean’s kitchen table. “But no matter how your skills fade, you still have good taste. And when you have good taste in writing, you can work your skills up to meet it.” Sam remembered staring at Castiel and thinking that this was probably one more reason that losing his job at the Los Angeles Times couldn’t have been completely bad.  
  
Lunch was still an hour away when Rufus appeared at Sam’s shoulder with a gentle clearing of the throat.  
  
“Hey,” Sam tilted his head up and grinned. It faded when he saw the tight expression on Rufus’ face.  
  
“Hey,” Rufus replied, crossing his arms and tapping a finger against an elbow. “I’m supposed to tell you that Michael wants to see you in his office. Now, if you can.” Sam physically felt the wash of adrenaline.  
  
“What for?” he murmured. Rufus shook his head.  
  
“I don’t think it’s good,” he muttered. “Kid, I’m sorry.”  
  
“Sorry?” Sam grinned without feeling it. “Damn, Rufus, you’ve been one of the better things to happen in this newsroom. Nothing’s your fault.”  
  
“Yeah?” Rufus exhaled hard and uncrossed his arms. “Hell, what do I know? You sound too much like you’re giving a farewell speech, kid. Go on, get in there before I get my ass kicked again for you.”  
  
Sam stood and resisted the temptation to clap Rufus on the shoulder. But he was right, it might be nothing. Might be. But it didn’t help that Sam could feel Ruby, Vincent and Garth watching him walk toward Michael’s office.  
  
Michael and Raphael were standing by the window when Sam opened the door. Their conversation cut off as soon as the hinges squeaked.  
  
“You wanted to see me?” Sam asked.  
  
“Yes, thank you,” Raphael gestured to the same seat Sam had occupied over a month ago for his interview with Michael. Sam was just lowering himself into it when the door opened again. Sam twisted around to find Castiel staring at him with a pale face.  
  
Well. That was it then. Shit.  
  
“Novak?” Michael frowned.  
  
“You fire him, I’m quitting.”  
  
The office hung in cottony silence for several heartbeats. Sam could hear his ears roaring.  
  
“Mr. Novak,” Raphael said, her voice the picture of composure. “We’re busy at the moment.”  
  
“You think I’m bluffing.”  
  
“I think you’re barging into this office at an inopportune time,” Raphael said. Authority crackled in her voice like lightning when she added, “Please leave.” Castiel sat down in the chair next to Sam. Through the confusion-bordering-on-panic, Sam sort of wanted to hug him.  
  
Raphael and Michael stood on the other side of the desk, the light from the window silhouetting them into dark pillars of judgment.  
  
“Mr. Novak—“  
  
“If this meeting isn’t about punishing Sam, then I’ll apologize and leave immediately,” Castiel said. No one said anything, and Castiel settled deeper into his chair.  
  
“Well,” Michael adjusted his glasses, voice cold. “Since we’re all being so refreshingly blunt with one another. Mr. Winchester,” Sam straightened. “I assume you can guess why you’re in here.”  
  
“I can guess,” Sam answered. Raphael’s eyebrows jumped a few centimeters.  
  
“You’ve been pursuing a story I expressly requested to be left alone. Is that correct?” Michael said  
  
Sam chanced a glance at Castiel—he wasn’t sure why—before he answered. “You’ll have to specify.”  
  
“A story accusing Singenta of improper worker health and safety,” Raphael stepped in.  
  
“It’s not so much an accusation,” Sam said, “as an investigation. Balanced reporting and all that.” A voice in Sam’s head screamed at him to drop the attitude, but Sam couldn’t bring himself to heed it.  
  
“I see. Since you’re here, Novak, I can ask you,” Michael turned to Castiel with a twitch of his neck. “Did you or did you not relay what I told you two weeks ago?”  
  
“I did.”  
  
“And then you joined Winchester.”  
  
“I did. To ensure that he doesn’t use newsroom resources. I happy to report I’ve been successful in that sense.” Sam had to swallow down the urge to giggle hysterically.  
  
An uncomfortable few seconds followed, in which Michael looked a few fuses away from reaching across the desk to smite them both, while Raphael could probably have summoned a blizzard, her expression was so cold.  
  
“So you decided to write this article,” Raphael said. “With what intent? You had to have known we weren’t going to run it.” Her dark eyes flashed. “And I’m sure you recalled you can’t create content for any publication besides the New Eldritch Herald, unless given express permission. You agreed to as much when you signed your contract with us.”  
  
Oh. Sam’s mind flashed back to the handbook sitting at the bottom of his desk’s drawer. Yes, that was standard policy in most newsrooms, wasn’t it? Sam thought he heard someone shouting on the other side of the office door, but then Castiel spoke.  
  
“This is an independent venture,” he insisted. “Completely on our own time.”  
  
“It’s the principle of the matter,” Michael answered.  
  
Sam turned his head, because he could have sworn he’d heard…  
  
“You just can’t stand anyone taking some initiative and not kow-towing to you two”— _Shit, Cas_  Sam thought in a strange mix of pride and despair,  _there’s a time and place_ —“and frankly, if you’d been less of a dick about everything, we wouldn’t have—“  
  
No, there was definitely shouting and it was definitely in the form of his name and it definitely sounded like—  
  
“If you think you’re immune to a demotion, Mr. Novak, you are sadly—“ The office door clacked open.  
  
“Hey. Knock it off.” The words were so familiar, Sam almost expected Michael to turn into John Winchester and the newsroom to transform into a ratty motel room. Four pairs of eyes whipped around to find Dean standing just inside the office, a wide-eyed Zachariah behind him.  
  
“Oh,” Raphael said in a voice just this side of humorless. “Another one.” Dean ignored her to give Sam an expression asking:  _you okay?_  
  
 _Yeah._  
  
He should be embarrassed.  
  
 _Should I be kicking someone’s ass?_  
  
 _Probably not._  
  
He should be indignant.  
  
 _Fine. Not leaving though._  
  
He wasn’t.  
  
 _Wasn’t asking you to._ Sam liked to think he was the only one to catch Dean’s flicker of a smile. He then turned his head to find Castiel staring at Dean as one might gaze upon a thunderstorm.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Zachariah was fumbling. “He just came in—“  
  
“Thank you,” Raphael cut him off. Zachariah looked like he wanted to protest before he slowly closed the office door. Sam turned back around in time to watch Raphael and Michael have their own conversation in a glance. He recalled abruptly what Castiel had told him, about Michael, Lucian, Gabe and Raphael once being as close as family. (And he wondered, despite himself, if Raphael and Michael ever felt obligated to keep the remains of their family together. Whether out of a sense of duty or in memory of better times.)  
  
“I don’t suppose you’re leaving,” Michael spoke to Dean.  
  
“You can kiss my ass first, sir.”  
  
“I see.” And then, like a clap of thunder in a perfectly blue sky, “Consider yourself dismissed from your position.”  
  
“You can’t do that!” Sam burst out, just as Castiel shouted, “What?”  
  
“Guys,” Dean barked.  
  
“He hasn’t done anything wrong!” Sam surged to a stand, hands flat on the desk. Neither Michael nor Raphael so much as flinched. He could feel Castiel’s hand brush his arm, as if unsure whether to try and restrain him.  
  
“Sam!” Dean’s hand had no such qualms, landing on Sam’s shoulder with a rough shake. “Stop! It’s fine!”  
  
“NO IT FUCKING ISN’T!” Sam roared. “He has no  _right_ —“  
  
“Mr. Winchester, please restrain yourself,” Michael ordered.  
  
“Sammy,” Dean’s voice came low. “Godamnit, Sam, sit back down. You’re going to get the cops called on us. It’s okay. It’s fine.” Sam whole body shuddered before he slowly sank back into the chair. Dean’s hand never left his shoulder.  
  
“Sam,” Michael’s voice filtered through the ringing in Sam’s ears. (All he could think about was that stupid house Dean loved so much and now it would be gone, gone, because no one else would hire a high-school dropout with a criminal record and what would Dean do now? What if he fell back into the bottle—?) “I made it clear when I hired you that you’d be walking a narrow line.” Sam lifted his chin and refused to break eye contact. “I decided to give you leeway. I am still willing to discount this as your third strike if you drop the article immediately.”  
  
“I drop the article, you let Dean keep his job.”  
  
“You are in no position to be bargaining with us, I’m afraid,” Raphael said. “Consider your brother’s dismissal a warning shot.” As soon as the words left her lips Sam saw the flicker at the edge of Michael’s mouth and recognized the trap he’d just barreled into. He wanted to smack himself.  
  
Because of course Michael would use Dean. Of course he’d play them like that. Sam was a grade A  _idiot_.  
  
“You fire Dean, everyone hears about you and Dick Roman,” Sam heard himself say as if from a great distance.  
  
“I’m sorry?” Michael’s voice had turned dangerously cool. Sam’s heart felt like a sparrow thwacking against his ribcage.  
  
“I think if you let an article about Singenta employees getting fluoride poisoning see the light of day, Dick Roman’s funding would disappear so fast your head would spin,” Sam continued. “I think Dick caught wind of what Cas and I were up to and either gave you a head’s up or threatened you. Either way, I think that’s considered unethical journalism.”  
  
Michael’s face had become a mask of stone. Raphael’s betrayed no emotion.  _Family_ , Sam thought again.  
  
“I see,” Michael said, voice almost friendly. “Do you have an ounce of proof?”  
  
“I can get it.” Sam thought of Meg and mentally added a  _maybe_. “I want you two to let Dean keep his job. He knows those printing machines inside and out, I would be hanging onto him for dear life if I were you.” Dean’s hand, still resting on his shoulder, tightened incrementally.  
  
“You do that, I won’t publish. I won’t breathe a word about Dick Roman.” Castiel shifted at Sam’s side, and Sam could only imagine the expression on his friend’s face.  
  
Raphael and Michael exchanged another glance. Raphael pursed her lips. Michael’s jaw jumped before he leaned forward even more.  
  
“You break that agreement, we fire you on grounds of corrupt journalism. News would spread,” he said. “And then I’d like to see the publication willing to be associated with you. Do you understand?”  
  
Sam straightened his back and nodded once, hard.  
  
“We do.”  
  
*****  
  
Dean insisted on driving them back to his house, explaining, “You two should stay out of that newsroom until the smoke clears.” All Sam could think about was the time Dean had taken him home in the middle of the school day after a teacher had outright harassed Sam.  
  
“Either I got us out of there or I ended up punching that douche’s face in and get expelled,” Dean had explained gruffly as they’d walked together along the road.  
  
Now, Sam kept glancing over at Dean as they sped past cornfields, examining the set of his jaw and the way his hands gripped the steering wheel. When he wasn’t doing that, he surreptitioulsy peered at the rearview mirror to try and catch Castiel. He couldn’t turn the serious, quiet demeanor into anything meaningful.  
  
They pulled into the driveway a little too fast. Dean killed the engine and opened the door with a clack. Sam watched him step out of the car, but not enter the house. Instead he leaned against the Impala’s left flank, facing the afternoon sun, eyes squinched almost shut. He rubbed both hands down his face. Sam looked back at Castiel for help. Castiel looked back at him with an air of ‘he’s  _your_  brother.’  
  
After a quiet huff, Sam opened his door and unfolded from the car to lean on the car beside Dean. Castiel did the same, positioning himself on Sam’s other side and peering at the sun as if curious of what Dean saw there. Sam, for his part, looked at his feet and felt Dean and Castiel’s warmth on either side and wondered how he’d managed to let both of them down within the space of twenty minutes.  
  
“Several weeks ago,” Castiel’s voice broke through the silence. “I was trying to photograph a goshawk along the highway. A black car drove by and scared it off.”  
  
Dean turned his head, face screwed up in confusion before it burst into comprehension.  
  
“That was you,” Dean said. A tan overcoat, Sam recalled slowly. A car pulled over sloppily. “I almost hit your stupid Kia,” Dean accused.  
  
“Sorry we messed up your shots,” Sam said. Castiel grinned.  
  
“Look,” he opened the car door again to retrieve a camera. After a minute of fiddling with the buttons, he handed it over to Sam and Dean. The brothers huddled over the camera’s screen to find a pristine picture of a black-and-white spotted bird in mid-flight. Sam tilted his head up at Castiel.  
  
“It’s beautiful,” he said honestly. Castiel’s eyes wrinkled at the corners.  
  
“This a parable for something?” Dean asked, ignoring the  _fwap_  as Sam slapped his chest with the back of his hand. “Good can come out of shitty situations?”  
  
“It does, now that you mention it,” Castiel accepted the camera as Dean held it out. “But I think I was just trying to share something positive.” Sam tilted his head away so he could smile into the sun. Beside him, Dean coughed out a laugh.  
  
“Fair enough. Anyone want a beer?” he asked. “Cas?”  
  
“I don’t drink.”  
  
Dean shrugged. “Sam?”  
  
“It’s barely three, Dean.”  
  
“And we just did battle with King and Queen Dick. I want a beer.” Dean made to push himself from the car when Sam’s hand landed on the crook of his arm. Dean jerked his head up to Sam.  
  
“Can we just…do you have to?” Dean half-mouthed something. Then he fell back against the car and loosely crossed his arms. Sam could sense Castiel watching them. “Sorry,” Sam blurted. His hands came up to frame his face. “I just…sorry.”  
  
“What for?” Castiel asked quietly.  
  
“Today. Screwing up the article. Almost getting Dean fired. All of it.”  
  
“Jesus Christ, Sammy.”  
  
“Dean, you almost lost your job. It took you forever to get it!”  
  
“Oh, and that’s your fault?” Dean asked. “I was the one who barged in there.”  
  
“I think it’s my fault,” Castiel piped up. “I told Jo to fetch Dean. Not sure why. And I might add that I convinced Sam to pursue the Singenta article in the first place.”  
  
“Please,” Sam whipped around to scowl at Castiel. “You were terrified of that project at first. I was the one who got the ball rolling.”  
  
“Yeah well, I was the one to convince Sam to interview for this job, so I take the blame, I win, everyone else shut the hell up,” Dean growled. Sam and Castiel stared at him before Sam snorted so hard his throat hurt. Dean cracked a sly grin.  
  
“Wow,” Sam said, bobbing his head for emphasis. “We’re something else, guys.”  
  
“Yes we are,” Dean agreed, and his arms uncrossed to lean against the Impala. “Which is why if you two give up on this article, I’m disowning both of you.”  
  
“You were there. I basically just signed it off,” Sam argued.  
  
“Which was stupid of you, Sammy,” Dean rolled his eyes. “Publish the article, and so what if he fires me?”  
  
“Michael wasn’t bluffing when he said he could ruin Sam’s reputation though,” Castiel added before Sam could open his mouth. “You ought to know: journalists are terrible gossips. Word would get around.”  
  
“I already have one major black mark on my record,” Sam muttered.  
  
“Oh for God’s—Sam. For the last. Freaking. Time. You were  _innocent_.”  
  
“I’m  _wasn’t_  innocent though!” Sam almost surprised himself when he stepped away from the car to face Dean and Castiel properly. “Why do you think I resigned from the Los Angeles Times? Why I tried not to get bothered when I started working here?”  
  
“ _You_  didn’t fabricate anything,” Castiel clarified, a hint of worry entering his voice.  
  
“No, no,” Sam shook his head, “but Azazel was my partner in that Rodriguez story. And we were supposed to check each others’ facts. And I let all those lies slip right past me.”  
  
“But at some point, you had to go by what Azazel had in his notes,” Castiel hastened. “Like in the Steven Glass case.”  
  
“No,” Sam said in a whisper-voice, feeling a swell of hysterical panic rise over him. “No, guys, I  _talked_   _to the sources_. And when they told me that quotes or facts sounded wrong, I went to Azazel and asked him about it. I basically let him convince me that the sources were confused, and that what he had was fine. And you want to know why I didn’t fight him on it? Because it was a fucking Friday evening and I was tired of this damn article we’d been working on for three straight days and I wanted to go home.”  
  
Dean watched him expressionlessly while Castiel opened his mouth, closed it, then shook his head and said, “What about the fact checkers?”  
  
“Cas, look around you! No one can afford to pay fact checkers anymore, not even the Los Angeles Times! They have the reporters do that now! I mean, the idea was I would check Azazel and Azazel would check me and everyone would keep each other in line but no! No, I decide to slack off for one story and suddenly it’s the next big reason the journalism industry is run by a bunch of liars, corrupt panhandlers and incompetent idiots.” Sam was roaring at this point. “So you get why the Rodriguez shitstorm was just as much my fault as Azazel’s? Do you get why Lucian suggested I resign and why I really, honestly, could not complain when Michael and Zachariah treated me like the liability I am? I. Screwed. Up.”  
  
“Well I see the problem right there,” Dean threw up a hand, silencing Sam into confusion for a moment. “Of course Lucian told you to resign. He and Michael are genetically programmed to screw people over.” Sam lifted his arms briefly, then let them slap against his thighs in defeat.  
  
“I don’t…”  
  
“You don’t have control over a pair of brothers using you in their…what did Crowley tell you? Their chess game,” Dean jabbed his finger into his palm. “You don’t have to put up with being outright threatened by your boss for doing your freaking job. You don’t have to drop the biggest article you’ve written in a year because you’re scared your dickwad boss’ll fire your deadbeat brother.”  
  
“You’re not a deadbeat,” Sam mumbled.  
  
“Dean’s right, Sam” Castiel supplied. “You should stop blaming yourself. It’s not doing anyone any good, least of all yourself.”  
  
“There we go,” Dean clapped Castiel on the shoulder. “Listen to Cas.”  
  
Sam released a shuddering breath that could have also been a laugh. He looked between Dean’s achingly familiar face and Castiel’s open, kind one and he wanted to bury his own face in his hands, they were overwhelming him.  
  
“So…the Singenta article,” he tried.  
  
“It’s going up,” Dean promised.  
  
“How?” Castiel asked, tugging at his tie worriedly.  
  
Dean gave a wide, wicked smile.  
  
*****  
  
 **The New Eldritch Herald – Wednesday, August 14, 2013**  
  
 **City Council approves funding for expanded bus route**  
By Ruby Sangre – The new route is planned to reach the outskirts of the community.  
  
 **Three generations of quilting**  
By Rachel Fischer – Jean Palmer, daughter Barbara Rey and granddaughter Kelsey Rey, design, make and restore quilts together.  
  
 **Drink local: Microbrews**  
By Balthazar Peters – Microbrews are a spreading trend, and Kansas is no exception. The top ten microbrews in the state, and where you can find them.  
Photos by Castiel Novak  
…  
…  
  
 **To:** Balthazar Peters  
 **From:** Bela Talbot  
 **Subject:** Microbrew  
  
So how much fun did you have reporting that microbrew story, you lucky bastard?  
  
  
 **To:** Bela Talbot  
 **From:** Balthazar Peters  
 **Subject:** Re: Microbrew  
  
Our Leaders Michael and Raphael are great and terrible gods. For when they are angered their fury is frightening to behold, but when merciful they truly heap bounties upon the faithful.  
So much fun. I don’t remember writing a word of that article.  
  
  
 **To:** Balthazar Peters  
 **From:** Bela Talbot  
 **Subject:** Re: Re: Microbrew  
  
You’re such a fucking ham.  
  
*****  
  
“I could still stick it on the Herald’s website,” Charlie pointed out.  
  
“We have enough peoples’ jobs on the line,” Sam reminded her.  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Charlie hoisted her feet on her chair and rested her chin on her knees. “Just reminding you.” A few clicks. “What if I hacked into Michael’s email account?”  
  
“No,” Castiel said.  
  
“I bet he has all sorts of other secret business deals,” Jo piped up. Sam caught Castiel’s expression roughly translating into: ‘why did we tell a group of twenty-something journalists about their boss’s shady business deal?’  
  
“This isn’t about Michael’s business deals, secret or otherwise,” Anna said, earning herself a relieved look from Sam. “Focus.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m focusing,” Charlie’s fingers rattled across the keyboard. “You know, this isn’t going to go any faster with you guys watching. Go watch TV or something.” Sam acquiesced, wandering over to his bed/couch, where Kevin sat curled up with Sam’s article’s rough draft and a green pen.  
  
“How’s it look?” Sam asked, leaning on the couch’s back.  
  
“I like this version of the conclusion better,” Kevin said distractedly, underlining something. “It gives it a more polished feel. Overall, it’s coming together well.”  
  
“Yeah?” Sam asked, aware of Castiel hovering at his shoulder. “Thanks again for doing this, Kevin.”  
  
“When you’re done,” Castiel spoke up. “Let me have the final draft.”  
  
“What for?” Kevin tilted his head up.  
  
“I’ll be the fact checker,” Castiel glanced at Sam and shrugged once. “Someone needs to do it.”  
  
“Hey, anyone wants tacos you get them now,” Dean called out from the kitchen. Castiel turned away, looking vaguely embarrassed. Sam followed him into the kitchen and when Castiel paused behind Jo and Anna, he leaned forward to say, “Thanks, Cas,” and hoped he understood.  
  
Castiel didn’t say anything. But the back of his neck turned pink. And Sam had the most peculiar sensation that if Dean had witnessed all that, he’d have rolled his eyes and called them dorks.  
  
Instead, Dean served them tacos and everyone gathered in the living room to watch reruns of “Breaking Bad.”  
  
“Okay,” Charlie announced nearly an hour later. “We’re ready to go.” Six curious faces surrounded her laptop, and she leaned back as everyone examined the new website.  
  
It had an…artistic quality, Sam decided. Something freer than a standard news website, maybe more like a blog.  
  
“The main article is going on this page,” Charlie pointed with the cursor, then flew to a sidebar. “Then we have Cas’s pictures, the video, more detailed profiles of Benny, Kali, Amy and the rest, links and the About Us page.”  
  
“I like the graphics,” Anna bobbed her head. “And the layout is very user-friendly.”  
  
“So I win?” Charlie leaned back, giving them all her patented grin.  
  
“You so win,” Sam promised.  
  
“So we get this up and running in what, three days? Four days?” Jo asked. “Then what? We wait for people to find it?”  
  
“We email the link to the people in it, first,” Castiel explained. “We ask them to send it to friends and family. Hopefully, word spreads that way.”  
  
“I give it a boost in Google,” Charlie added. “Enough traffic and it shows up in the first few pages of “Singenta” search results.”  
  
“And if Michael sees it?” Kevin asked quietly. “I mean, we have our names attached.” Everyone exchanged glances.  
  
“Hey,” Dean held up a hand. “We already said. You want to back out, no one’ll say a bad word against you, right?”  
  
“It wasn’t that so much,” Kevin said. “More, how do you think he’ll react?”  
  
“He’ll fume and not be able to do anything about it,” Anna said, voice firm. “I read through that handbook. This is not technically  _publishing,_  in that we’re not getting paid to do this, and there’s no one we’re working for.”  
  
“I know,” Kevin nodded, face still somber. “I’m just saying…it’s going to be sort of a shit show, isn’t it?”  
  
No one had an answer to that one.  
  
*****  
  
The site went live a week later, on a Tuesday afternoon. Emails were sent. Links were posted on Facebook and Twitter accounts. They waited.  
  
On Wednesday morning they had 20 comments. By the afternoon, it had gone up to 58.  
  
“104,” Charlie whispered to Jo and Castiel on a Thursday morning, crouched between their chairs. “And 479 unique hits.” Then she tapped the side of her nose and left as abruptly as she had arrived. Castiel watched her casually wander over to Sam. He could tell when Charlie told him the news, because his eyebrows shot up.  
  
“So this is actually happening,” Jo said. Castiel swiveled his chair in her direction.  
  
“You’re not regretting it are you?”  
  
“No way,” Jo made a face.  
  
“But you can’t pitch this project to the Garrison.”  
  
“Yeah, but do you have any idea how much I’ve learned the past two weeks? Nah, we’ll find something less…abrasive and pitch that. ‘Cause this paper is going to have videos, whether they want them or not—what?”  
  
“Nothing,” Castiel swallowed down another laugh. “You know what I just realized? I haven’t seen solitaire on your screen for a solid month.”  
  
Jo must have understood what he was trying to say, because the smile that spread across her face was equally bashful and delighted and proud. She hunched toward her computer screen with an exaggerated huff, the smile still in place.  
  
“You know what  _I_ realized?” she asked a moment later, voice just this side of teasing. “That you’ve actually been eating lunch these days.” Her eyes flicked over to the news desk before landing back on Castiel, and honestly, he couldn’t think of a thing to say.  
  
*****  
  
 **The New Eldritch Herald – Monday, August 26, 2013**  
  
 **Franklin College reports largest freshman class in history**  
By Garth Fitzgerald IV- The incoming class numbers 552, nearly 50 more students than the last record holder.  
  
 **Back to school for students**  
By Becky Rosen – Students across New Eldritch Public School District began classes today.  
Photos by Jo Harvelle  
…  
…  
  
 **To:** Michael Alef  
 **From:** Raphael Dusan  
 **Subject:** \--  
  
Take a look at this.  
  
*****  
  
By the next Monday, (185 comments, nearly a thousand unique hits) no one had heard so much as a peep from either the editor-in-chief or the managing editor. But Castiel felt 98 percent sure that they knew about the website at this point, because as far as he could tell, everyone in the newsroom had heard of it and at least taken a cursory peek.  
  
He’d even gotten a few compliments from his coworkers. Gordon had gone so far as to tell him his sister worked in the factory and to thank Castiel for reporting on it. His email inbox suddenly swelled with comments on his photography, from praising to accusatory of invading peoples’ privacy. Sam, Jo, Kevin, Anna and Charlie reported similar experiences.  
  
Scrolling through the comments in his free time, Castiel found everything from paragraph-long praises for their in-depth, balanced reporting to loud claims that this was obviously a load of bullshit, to excited cries to hold Singenta legally responsible, to arguments that this website would lead to the factory being shut down, and then a major source of jobs and tax revenue would be lost, and they should all be ashamed of themselves. People from out of state must have started reading, because there were also union leaders emailing Sam to ask him for details about the working conditions, personal anecdotes from people who had gotten fluoride poisoning in similar situations and workers from other Singenta factories wondering how safe they were.  
  
Sam got a call on Monday from Benny, who reported that without explanation, new filters had been ordered, and would be installed within the week.  
  
“So all it took was a little public embarrassment,” Bobby observed at lunch. “That’s downright pathetic.”  
  
“Hey, it’s better than what they were getting before,” Dean shrugged.  
  
“It could be better,” Sam speared a tomato from his salad. “Benny said a lot more people are stepping forward about symptoms that have been developing since they started working at the factory. The unions want to help get them some compensation but it’s going to take a while. Apparently Singenta’s being really coy about the whole thing.”  
  
“They’re going to have to cull the people who were actually damaged by the factory’s conditions from those who only think they were, or are downright lying about it,” Castiel added.  
  
“Yeah, you’re right,” Dean’s face collapsed into a frown. “You’d think…you know, people don’t make  _sense_  most of the time.”  
  
“Well yeah, but,” and here Sam glanced at Castiel for no reason Castiel could discern. “That’s what makes them interesting.”  
  
Sam then ducked back down to his salad, leaving Castiel with the distinct impression that he’d missed something.  
  
Sam and Castiel walked back to the newsroom slowly after lunch, their footsteps echoing against empty walls.  
  
“Do you think Michael is going to do anything?” Castiel asked, because it had been on his mind the last few days. Sam shrugged.  
  
“He hasn’t called anyone into his office. Dean hasn’t heard a peep. I think Anna’s right; he can’t technically punish us for this.”  
  
“Your work…?”  
  
“Same as it ever was,” Sam shrugged again. Castiel frowned as they made the last turn in the stairwell. “Would you want to do something like this again?” he asked.  
  
Sam slowed, stopped, and Castiel followed suit. “I don’t…this took a lot of time and energy. And I probably wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t for the people. For Amy and Benny. And you guys too.” He covered his mouth with his hand, briefly. “Maybe. If it were the right story.”  
  
“And you don’t want to quit. So,” Castiel said slowly. “You’re okay with doing this kind of work for the next…however many years. Only writing briefs and disliked by your superiors.”  
  
“You trying to convince me of something, Cas?”  
  
“No, I’m only saying,” Castiel inhaled before continuing. “You deserve better. Because you’re not…you’re not tainted, Sam. No matter what mistakes you might have made in the past.”  
  
Castiel didn’t want to look at Sam for several seconds, and when he did, he found far too much gratitude there, as if Castiel were one of the only people to tell Sam something like that. Sam’s lips moved to say something before he turned away.  
  
“Thanks,” he said. After a few heartbeats, he started walking again. Castiel followed.  
  
*****  
  
Castiel worked the next two days with a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach, even as the website continued to receive hits. Nothing from Michael or Raphael. Nothing from Crowley.  
  
Instead, a visit from Meg.  
  
She appeared on Wednesday night, right before Castiel usually started getting ready for bed. When he opened his door, his first instinct was to close it again. Then he remembered that Meg was an accomplished lock picker and instead stepped back.  
  
“Hello, Meg,” he said carefully. Meg grinned.  
  
“You’d think I used to beat you, Cassie,” she said, stepping in. Her glance around the apartment was cursory. “Not much’s changed.”  
  
“Why are you here?” Meg rolled her eyes at Castiel.  
  
“Relax, I’ll be here for literally five minutes.”  
  
“It’s not that—“  
  
“Shut up,” she told him cheerfully. “Listen, stop looking like a beat puppy, you’re almost as bad as that Sam kid.” She crossed her arms, widened her stance. “Just wanted to give you a head’s up.”  
  
“A head’s up,” Castiel repeated blankly.  
  
“Got a call from fuckass today.”  
  
“F—oh, Crowley.”  
  
“He asked some…suspicious questions. And I think something big’s going down the next few days.”  
  
“Big how?”  
  
“Hell, you think he’d tell me?” Meg scowled.  
  
“Why are you telling me?”  
  
“’Cause you’re caught up in it all, aren’t you? You and the Winchester kid. Saw you guys’ website by the way. Proud of you, Cas, getting all rebellious.”  
  
Castiel ducked his head. “It wasn’t for the sake of being rebellious.”  
  
“Was it to piss a lot of people off?” Meg asked. “‘Cause you did that. Dick Roman? Throwing an epic hissy fit. It’s pretty hilarious.”  
  
“Is he going to pull his funding from the newspaper?” Castiel asked, whipping his head up.  
  
“You think I know?” Meg shrugged. “I mean, it’s not like this stuff was published  _by_ the Herald, you understand me? But obviously you guys are Herald employees and I’ll bet Michael’s getting an earful. Nothing worse than that, though. Honestly, I think the only reason Dick hasn’t gone after you all is because nearly everyone in town is reading this thing and he  _knows_ he’s got a lot of eyes on him.”  
  
“So…Kali and Benny and Amy, everyone we interviewed, they aren’t going to be fired?”  
  
“At this point, no,” Meg shook her head. “I think Dick’s worried they’d go to you guys if they were. Power of the media, right?”  
  
“I suppose so,” Castiel murmured. He hesitated before speaking again. “Meg…what did Michael do to Crowley?”  
  
Meg shot him a strange look.  
  
“Why would I know?” she asked.  
  
“Because you’re you.” When Castiel looked at Meg again, he found an expression that could almost be called fond.  
  
“Ex-boyfriends know you too well, I swear. Okay, I don’t know details,” she said slowly. “But I think Crowley used to be Sam. A chess piece. I dunno, I’ve heard him railing on Michael and Lucian a few times for making his life hell. Something about…dunno, about them both trying to control him as the advertising head? I guess it got bad.”  
  
“I can imagine so.”  
  
“But maybe Crowley just likes screwing with people,” Meg shrugged. “Maybe he’s going out with a bang. You never know with the guy.”  
  
“I think I understand,” Castiel nodded before he cleared his throat. “Was that all?” he asked.  
  
“That was all,” Meg agreed. She seemed to hesitate before reaching out and flicking Castiel’s forehead. “You’re looking good, unicorn,” she said.  
  
“Please don’t call me that,” Castiel groaned, but it wasn’t a very loud groan.  
  
“You love it,” Meg flashed a smile. “Take care of yourself, you hear? Watch out for the next few days.” Then she opened the door and disappeared into the evening gloom. Castiel thought at the last minute that he should have taken a picture of her.


	14. Chapter 14

 

> _“Well, a lot of people don’t want to be quoted. But keep in mind that Bob Woodward did all of his Watergate reporting with anonymous sources, and we know how that turned out.”_  
>  _\- Edward Klein_

 

 **The New Eldritch Herald – Friday, August 30, 2013**  
  
*****  
  
The “something big” manifested itself in Anna calling his cell phone Friday morning as Castiel made his usual rounds.  
  
“Are you near a computer?” she asked as soon as Castiel picked up.  
  
“No,” he said.  
  
“Get near one—what about your phone?”  
  
“Not everyone has a smartphone, Anna.”  
  
“For God’s…it’s the Kansas City Star. Michael. The illicit money from Roman. It’s all on the freaking front page.” Castiel’s heart dropped straight into his stomach, and he pressed on the brakes. “Who  _told_  them?” Anna was saying. “None of us would have done that, we all knew what a blow that would be to the newspaper.”  
  
“Crowley,” Castiel almost laughed the word. “Crowley would.”  
  
“Oh.” The receiver remained silent for a long time. “Shit. That fucking…” something thumped. “I am marching down to the advertising department right now and strangling him. I swear I am.”  
  
“How much do you want to bet he’s gone?” Castiel asked grimly, changing his destintion for the New Eldritch Herald building. Anna let loose several colorful expletives. Something definitely clattered.  
  
A long beat of silence.  
  
“How did it get to this, Cas?” Anna’s voice came quieter and more pained. “Do you remember how it used to be, in the old days? This kind of thing would have been unthinkable.”  
  
Castiel wished then that he could reach through the phone and give Anna a hug, one that he needed as much as it sounded like she did.  
  
“I’m going to be at work in ten minutes,” he promised. “Where are you?”  
  
“At home still,” Anna said in a low voice. “Most of us don’t start working until nine, remember?” A pause. “Oh God, do you think Michael’s even going to show up today?”  
  
“Probably,” Castiel said grimly. “If only to prove a point. Listen, Anna, who have you told?”  
  
“You’re the first person I called.”  
  
“Then I’ll let you call Jo, Kevin and Charlie, and whoever else you think should know. I can get the Winchesters and Bobby.”  
  
“Okay,” Anna’s voice came stronger. “Okay.” A bitter laugh. “See you on the other side, right?”  
  
“Right.” Castiel hung up with a sigh. He tapped his phone against the steering wheel before dialing Sam’s number. It rang three times before a voice crackled through.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Dean?” Castiel slowed for a traffic light.  
  
“Yeah, Sam’s in the shower right now. Wanna leave a message?”  
  
“I probably shouldn’t…” Castiel hesitated.  
  
“Cas?” Dean’s voice came softer, more like how he might talk to Sam. “Is everything okay?”  
  
“I’ll call back in a few minutes.”  
  
“No, you stay right there,” something shuffled in the background. “Is it an emergency?”  
  
“No, not an emergency,” Castiel admitted. “Just…very pressing news.”  
  
“Got it. Sam!” Castiel could hear a door squeak, followed by the sound of water spattering tile. Sam’s voice echoed fuzzily. “Something’s up,” Dean’s voice came from a distance. “It’s Cas.”  
  
The light changed, and Castiel surged forward.  
  
“Cas?” Sam’s voice filled his ear, and Castiel felt his hand loosen its grip on the steering wheel despite himself.  
  
“Put me on speaker,” he said. “Dean should hear this.” Castiel spent the drive down Broadway Road explaining what Anna had told him. Halfway through, he heard a clatter of typing in the background. “I haven’t seen it,” he explained. “I’m in the car.”  
  
“We have it here,” Dean said. “It’s uh…well, it’s pretty straightforward.”  
  
“How long? How in depth? Is Crowley mentioned?”  
  
“Medium length,” Sam said. “Maybe 400 words. Um, I don’t see Crowley’s name.”  
  
“It says, ‘a source close to Alef,’” Dean reported. “Jesus. How d’you think he did it?”  
  
“Who knows what kinds of connections he has?” Sam said. Castiel could almost hear the eye roll.  
  
“I think we ought to focus more on what’s going to happen today,” Castiel said. “What if Michael and Raphael think this was us?” A long silence followed.  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean said with feeling. “Knowing our luck.”  
  
“Maybe you shouldn’t go to work today,” Sam suggested, his voice low. Another long silence ensued, and Castiel could only assume the brothers were having one of those wordless conversations at which they were so accomplished.  
  
When the silence got awkward enough, he said, “I can call back.”  
  
“No,” Sam and Dean said at the same time, and despite everything, that earned a small smile from Castiel.  
  
“Let’s just play it normal,” Sam said slowly, as if reading from a notecard. “As soon as we start acting suspicious we might be digging our own graves.”  
  
“And it’s not like I’m the only one who can get fired,” Dean grumbled.  
  
“Dean I—okay. Cas? We’ll see you at work.”  
  
“Can you call Bobby? He’ll want to know,” Castiel said as he pulled into the Herald’s parking lot.  
  
“Calling Bobby. Can do. See you in a bit, Cas.” Castiel listened to a hushed garble of voices as Sam hung up. He tossed the phone into his lap, parked, and sat in his car for a solid ten minutes, eventually leaning forward to press his forehead against the steering wheel.  
  
The newsroom was all but empty when Castiel entered. Samandriel sat at his desk in the far corner of the room, Hester was just unlocking her office and Kevin….Kevin’s eyes widened as soon as he saw Castiel. He hurried over to the photography desk, looking somehow younger than usual.  
  
“Anna said she told you.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“What the  _hell_?”  
  
“I know.” Castiel leaned back in his seat, pressing two fingers to his temple. “Sam, Dean and I agreed we should act normal.”  
  
“Castiel, no one’s going to act normal today,” Kevin pointed out. “You think half of the office doesn’t already know their boss—”  
  
“I know, I know,” Castiel sighed. “Just…if someone gets called into Michael’s office, don’t go barging in after them. That would probably be safest.” Kevin gave him a strange look before speaking again.  
  
“What do you think is going to happen to the paper?” Castiel looked at Kevin then looked around at the newsroom as if to find the answer there. Old, ugly industrial carpet. Computers that needed replacing. White walls and huge windows to let in the natural light, and old swivel chairs that had molded to each occupant’s body by now. The row of wooden doors on the far wall, the window showing the conference room where he’d spent countless hours, the desk that always needed to be tidied up.  
  
Castiel realized with a small lurch that if the New Eldritch Herald shut down, he’d miss this place terribly. For all the drama and disappointments, he’d miss it. Jo’s bright smile, Anna’s wry teasing, Charlie’s give-them-hell attitude, Kevin’s astute observations. Gabe’s ridiculous pranks, Naomi’s weekly reminders that she had no tolerance for passive sentences, Balthazar coming in hung over, Raphael and Michael’s calm, confident leadership. Late nights editing photos for the next day’s paper. City council meetings. Little kids asking him to take their pictures at the fairs and parades and school events year after year. Farmers opening up to him about their worries for that year’s harvest. More recently, lunches in the printing press. Bobby’s gruff version of showing that he cared. Dean smiling across the table at him, eyes wrinkling at the corners. Sam looking at him with wide, bright eyes like he was a boy again. Sam’s ridiculous long hair. Sam explaining something he’d read about the night before.  
  
Castiel looked at Kevin, as Zachariah bustled in looking harried.  
  
“I don’t know,” he said honestly.  
  
*****  
  
Kevin had been correct. Almost unnoticeable at first, but everyone had an extra tenseness to their shoulders, an almost jumpy look to them. Castiel caught it in every single person at the editors’ meeting. Everyone except Michael. He began the meeting as if this were every other Friday to have come before. As if everyone were not staring at him with an added level of scrutiny. Raphael, like a general loyal to her captain, followed Michael’s example.  
  
As they moved through the day’s news, Castiel wondered what Michael hoped to accomplish by ignoring what had been plastered across the Kansas City Star’s front page the last several hours. Not the main headline, perhaps, but absolutely on the front page, where any casual reader could see it.  
  
He kept glancing back to Gabe, since he’d be most likely to bring up the blatant elephant in the room. But rather than his customary slouch, Gabe was sitting up straight in his chair, staring at Michael with an unusually serious expression. And not with anything resembling anger or disgust. Perhaps something more…sad. But not quite. Castiel found himself staring at Gabe half of the meeting, trying to figure it out.  
  
At the end of the meeting, as per usual, Raphael asked if anyone had anything to add. Everyone stared at her, no one, it seemed, willing to speak first. Michael looked out at his Garrison with a passive face, and Castiel felt his lips part but no sound come out.  
  
“Thank you, you’re dismissed,” Raphael tapped her pile of papers against the desk. The room sluggishly stirred to life. Castiel stood and opened the door first, stepping out to find a newsroom perhaps quieter than usual. He made his way toward his desk but paused when he caught sight of Jo jabbing at something to her left, making exaggerated faces. Castiel’s eyes drifted across the newsroom, at Bela asking Tessa something as she pointed in the same direction as Jo. Gordon frowning. Ruby staring. Sam’s eyes wide as dinner plates, his big hands gripping the edge of his desk as if hanging on for dear life.  
  
And there. Castiel felt his back straighten.  
  
Lucian Alef. (No, he called himself Morningstar now, didn’t he?) Walking into the New Eldritch Herald as if he’d just stepped out for an assignment. The newsroom had all but fallen stone silent now, the only sound the subdued hisses from the police scanner perched on Rufus’ desk.  
  
Lucian progressed as if he didn’t notice a thing, his eyes fixed. When Castiel turned around, he found Michael still frozen just outside the door. Raphael had been caught in the moment of opening the door. Through the glass, Gabe looked somehow close to tears.  
  
Lucian halted a few paces away from his brother. He folded his hands behind his back and lifted his chin. Dirty blond contrasted with dark brown. Someone, somewhere, shifted in their seat and caused the plastic and metal to groan.  
  
As if the sound were a trigger, Michael unfroze and, with one swift hand movement, indicated that Lucian follow him into his office. His face betrayed nothing. Lucian looked as if he might argue for a split second, but then he obeyed. Raphael and Gabe followed without question. The office door closed with a polite snip that echoed through the newsroom like a gunshot.  
  
People stirred back to life, muttering, whispering, asking, until a susurrus of hushed conversation filled the room like a flock of dried leaves. Castiel was halfway to Sam before he could think.  
  
“Sam,” Castiel tried to keep his voice low and quiet. “Sam.” Sam turned his head by degrees, and when he faced Castiel fully, he looked like a small boy with his too-large hazel eyes.  
  
“Why is he here?” Sam asked in a whisper. Castiel wanted to wrap him up, to carry him away from this room and make him stop looking so wounded. Instead he lowered himself to a crouch.  
  
“I don’t know,” he said. “Do you want to leave?”  
  
“No…no way,” Sam blinked, and some life came back into his eyes. “I’m  _fine_.” Castiel almost smiled. Together, he and Sam looked at Michael’s office door. Many others were doing the same, asking in louder and louder voices whether they should be doing something, though no one seemed clear on  _what_ they should be doing. Garth distinctly scooted closer to it, as if to eavesdrop.  
  
“Garth!” Rufus snapped. “Have some damn common sense!”  
  
“What, we’re supposed to sit here while they decide whether we have a job anymore?” Garth asked. That made several peoples’ faces drop, and Rufus to cover his eyes briefly before ordering Garth to get away from the door again. Castiel and Sam exchanged a glance.  
  
“Hey.” Castiel looked up to find Dean approaching them, Bobby a few steps behind. “Jo texted,” Dean paused and casually put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, peering at Michael’s office. “So the prodigal son returns, eh?”  
  
“Yeah I…” Sam hesitated. “Cas, let’s go to your desk.” No one seemed to notice when the four of them moved across the newsroom to where Jo, Kevin, Anna and Charlie were predictably gathered. Castiel had to wonder if any work would get done that day. Whether the weekend newspaper would be published at all. Whether any issue of the New Eldritch Herald would ever be published again.  
  
“How fast did he get on a plane then?” Jo was asking as they approached. “An average flight from Los Angeles to Kansas is at least, what – two and a half hours?”  
  
“Must have seen it as soon as it was published, or he got a head’s up,” Kevin suggested, before he caught sight of them. The other three turned around and burst into a series of questions.  
  
“Did you see Michael’s  _face_?”  
  
“Do we still have jobs?”  
  
“Is Lucian taking over?”  
  
“Lucian take over?” Bobby repeated, frowning at Anna. “Why the hell would he do that?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t he want to take over?” Anna asked, eyes wide. “It’s his father’s legacy. He was booted out unceremoniously by his big brother. Soon as Michael hits a crisis like this, he comes in and hits where it hurts. Done and done, Lucian wins.”  
  
“Oh God,” Charlie made a face. “It’s like trading Voldemort in for Darth Vader.” Dean coughed loudly.  
  
“C’mon, he’s not going to do that,” Sam argued, though he didn’t sound completely sure either.  
  
“So we just sit here and wait?” Kevin suggested carefully. From the way everyone looked at one another, it seemed clear this was the only option.  
  
So they waited. No one showed any inclination to work, and even several faces from accounting, distribution and advertising floated up to the newsroom to ask if Lucian had really returned, craning their necks at the office door. Crowley did not appear.  
  
When the office door did open nearly an hour later, Castiel had been photographing the newsroom for a solid forty-five minutes, capturing people biting their nails, playing solitaire, trying to get work done, throwing Castiel dirty looks. He took pictures of the group gathered at the photography desk; Jo with her chin in her hand, Bobby folding his arms and staring at the floor, Sam looking nearly comatose leaned up against the wall, one arm pressed against his brother’s.  
  
The clack of the door, a swell of voices, made Castiel look up from his camera to find Michael, Raphael, Gabe and Lucian filing out. Their faces gave nothing away. Several people stood in response. Silence fell once more. The four figures paused, and Castiel saw them all exchange glances with one another. He was roughly transported to five years ago, when these four had managed the Herald together. When Castiel had been fresh out of graduation and there’d been no reason to suspect such a rift between Michael and Lucian was even a possibility.  
  
Michael took a step forward. Everyone seemed to sway toward him.  
  
“I am stepping down from my position as editor-in-chief,” Michael said, voice clear and steady. “I’m sure you all understand why.” A space of silence in which no one seemed to breathe. “I apologize to all of you.”  
  
Michael blinked and turned toward Lucian, who gave a minute nod. Then everyone watched dumbfounded as the two brothers walked along the line of offices, past Pam’s desk, and out of the newsroom.  
  
“If I could have your attention,” Raphael called out. Faces slowly shifted to land on her, standing tall and firm just in front of Gabe. “We’re going to ask that you resume your normal work today,” she said. “No matter how things turn out within a few days, we do want to have a weekend paper.” She hesitated before adding, “I promise we’ll inform you of our next steps as soon as they become clear.” She turned and said something to Gabe, letting the newsroom explode into no longer hushed conversation.  
  
“They’re…” Castiel turned to find Sam staring after Lucian and Michael. As if sensing Castiel’s gaze, he turned his head. “We’re not going to see them again.” Castiel flicked his eyes to Dean. Dean looked at Sam. As if with one mind, Dean and Sam scrambled to a stand. They and Castiel then burst into an all-out sprint to where the two Alef brothers had disappeared.  
  
They caught up with them in the lobby, halfway across the main vestibule. Lucian heard them first, turned slightly and did not seem surprised. Michael turned too, and Castiel was briefly thrown by how deeply tired he looked.  
  
“Sam,” Lucian greeted in a pleasant voice, as if they’d just run into each other at the grocery store.  
  
“Don’t,” Sam held up a hand, eyes focused on Michael. “You tell me,” he demanded. “You tell me right now why you hired me when you saw that I worked for Lucian. Why hire me, when you can’t handle me writing anything bigger than a traffic brief? Why?”  
  
Despite the weariness, Michael stared at Sam with all the imperiousness Castiel recognized from countless editorial meetings.  
  
“Hey, he’s asking a question,” Dean stepped forward.  
  
“I don’t think this is necessary,” Lucian said, voice still calm.  
  
“You shut the hell up,” Dean jabbed at Lucian. “I still blame you for Sam losing his job.”  
  
“He stepped down.”  
  
“AFTER YOU CONVINCED HIM THE RODRIGUEZ THING HAD BEEN HIS FAULT!”  
  
“Please,” Michael uttered right as Sam said, “Dean.” The lobby echoed with Dean’s voice in the ensuing silence. Sam turned to Michael.  
  
“Why?”  
  
Michael narrowed his eyes.  
  
“ _Why_? Crowley kept telling me about a—a chess games and rivalries but it’s…it’s more.” He seemed to falter then, and that’s when Raphael’s voice carried from the steps.  
  
“Please let them go.” Castiel, Sam and Dean turned around to find her standing at the foot of the steps, back still straight. “Please,” she repeated. “Let them leave. They need to sort this out before it gets any worse.” Castiel wondered what, exactly, she was referring to. Dean and Sam both looked ready to argue, so Castiel placed one hand on Dean’s elbow and one at the small of Sam’s back.  
  
“Let it go,” he murmured. Both the Winchester brothers tilted their heads toward him, Dean in frustration, Sam in bewilderment. Castiel pushed them gently, and they somehow followed his lead toward the steps. Castiel heard Michael and Lucian start walking again but did not bother to look behind when the front doors opened and closed.  
  
*****  
  
Raphael asked them to come into her office. Gabe was already there when they walked in.  
  
Sam had never been in the managing editor’s office before. It was smaller than Michael’s and had warmer colors. A coffee machine sat in the corner. Raphael did not sit behind her desk, but rather leaned against it and regarded Dean, Sam and Castiel with a weary expression. She didn’t speak at first, as if still deciding how to begin. Gabe stood in the corner, half looking as if he didn’t want to be there.  
  
“We didn’t say a word to anyone about Dick Roman,” Sam said.  
  
“I know that,” Raphael said.  
  
“You know Crowley spilled all this?” Dean insisted.  
  
“I  _know_.” She tilted her head. “He explained himself very politely in a letter this morning, along with his notice of resignation.” Sam caught Castiel’s eye.  
  
“Is Michael gone for good?” Castiel asked.  
  
“You did hear him just now?”  
  
“I mean, is he staying in New Eldritch. Or is he leaving town?” Or going to prison, Sam’s mind supplied.  
  
“We don’t know yet,” Gabe spoke up from the corner, voice flat. “It depends on if and how corporate Singenta presses charges.” Castiel exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath.  
  
“Have they made a move yet?” Sam asked. Raphael’s mouth tightened.  
  
“You’re asking an awful lot of very invasive questions.”  
  
“Sorry if I’m tired of being kept in the dark,” Sam snapped. “Why’d you bring us in here?”  
  
“Because as of ten minutes ago, I’m the acting editor-in-chief,” Raphael told them, straightening her jacket with a flick of her wrists. “And if I’m going to move forward in this position, I need to tie up a few loose ends, starting with you three and your…posse.” She took a breath before continuing, turning to look straight at Sam. “I’m going to acknowledge that Michael’s…Michael’s and my conduct toward you was unprofessional and unfair.”  
  
“And that’s just going to smooth everything over, is it?” Dean asked.  
  
“No,” Raphael snapped her head toward him. “But Michael wanted to fire your brother in disgrace, so accept this as a significant improvement.”  
  
“You didn’t agree with Michael in regards to Sam,” Castiel stated. “I’ll bet you didn’t like taking money from Roman either.” Raphael sighed.  
  
“Largely, no.”  
  
“But you went along with both of those things.”  
  
“You guys don’t know Michael,” Gabe spoke again. He took several steps forward, enough to be seen properly. “He was the golden boy, the eldest son of the best editor-in-chief most of us had seen. He was in charge. Completely in charge. You really think he’d have given Raphie a break when he couldn’t handle his own little brother acting up?”  
  
“Gabriel—“  
  
“Why d’you think I bailed? Opinions editor was the furthest I could get.” Raphael was watching Gabe with tightness around her eyes.  
  
“Why though?” Sam heard the thinness of his voice and wanted to wince. “I still don’t get why.”  
  
“Damnit, Sam, those two idiots love each other too much,” Gabe laughed, though it had no humor in it. “When Michael saw you, a link to Lucian, of course he hired you. You were  _something_ , at least.”  
  
“Besides the fact that that’s  _weird_ ,” Dean said in too forceful a voice, “why the crappy attitude?”  
  
“Because Michael also hates Lucian,” Raphael said quietly. “For leaving him, I think.”  
  
“I thought Michael kicked him out?” Castiel asked.  
  
“Not really,” Raphael shook her head gently, setting her straight, black hair swinging past her cheeks. “No, Lucian wanted to leave. Was aching to leave. All it took was the barest shove from Michael. And I think you, Sam, presented a chance for Michael to take out his frustration toward Lucian and himself.” Sam worked very, very hard not to look in Dean’s direction.  
  
“But who the hell knows really, Raphie?” Gabe asked, not bothering to hide the bitterness. “Maybe Michael wanted to purge Sam of Lucian’s influence, make him his from the ground up. Maybe he really was a sociopath.”  
  
“Michael was never a sociopath,” Raphael said with an eye roll, as if she’d had to say this too many times before.  
  
“About Lucian, he could be. God’s sake, they were always caught up in their own little world, Raph, you have to admit that.” Raphael did not answer, but she did glance at Gabe with a small indent between her brows, as if to ask ‘do we need to discuss this now?’  
  
Sam still refused to look at Dean.  
  
“Why was Lucian here then?” Castiel asked.  
  
“To offer his help,” Gabe shrugged. “He has some power; Michael needs it, with all the shit that’s coming down the pipeline. And since we’ve apparently lost our illicit funding from Dick—which I knew nothing about thanks—“ here he shot Raphael a certain look, which she ignored, “he also wanted to make a…very generous donation.”  
  
“I wasn’t going to put in that much detail,” Raphael told Gabe pointedly. She then turned to Dean, Sam and Castiel. “It was unexpected, but yes, he offered his help. Probably out of sentiment or in memory of his father. Who can tell? But Michael and I accepted. What they do now is, frankly, beyond us. We may hear back from them. We may not.”  
  
“We probably won’t,” Gabe added.  
  
“So it’s just you two now,” Sam said, looking between Raphael and Gabe. “Is that…will the newspaper survive?” He was met with two identical, bitter smiles.  
  
“Do you really think we know?” Raphael asked.  
  
*****  
  
It wasn’t even noon yet.  
  
Sam stared at the time in the top corner of his computer screen, not really seeing it. Across the desk, Victor and Garth spoke in hushed voices. Rufus had stopped telling them to concentrate half an hour ago. Ruby’s seat was empty.  
  
Sam’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he fished it out to find a text from Dean.  
  
 _So the guys who’re supposed to take the evening shift just called in “sick.” I might have to stay late if Bobby’s going to get the weekend edition printed in time. Don’t know why Raphael’s insisting on it, but she is._  
  
Sam typed back quickly.  
  
 _She wants to keep things mostly normal. It’s okay, I’ll hang around until you’re done._  
  
 _No, you need to get home. I wanted to take you home soon as we were done with Raphael but Bobby needs help._  
  
Before Sam could text a reply, his phone rang again.  
  
 _I’ve just asked Cas to drive you home now._  
  
A third buzz.  
  
 _He said he would. Stop pulling the bitchface._  
  
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Sam muttered. He looked up to find Castiel watching him from across the newsroom. As soon as they made eye contact, Castiel swung a bag on his shoulder, said something to Jo and crossed the room until he was standing in front of Sam.  
  
“So you’re my babysitter?” Sam asked, tilting his head.  
  
“No,” Castiel said in a deadpan voice. “I’m apparently the Samsitter.”  
  
Sam hacked out a laugh.  
  
Five minutes later, they were passing Pam’s desk and clattering down the steps. No one said a word to them.  
  
“This morning feels like forever ago,” Sam observed as they walked across the lobby.  
  
“I agree,” Castiel looked around, and Sam wondered if the same thing was on his mind; whether either of the Alef brothers would ever step foot in this building again. The August heat was surprisingly comfortable against Sam’s skin. He lifted his head so a mild breeze could move across his face.  
  
“Are you ever going to cut that hair?” Castiel asked, half despairing, half fond.  
  
“Nah,” Sam said, and in a fit of cheerfulness added, “I’m like Samson in the Bible. Cut it and all my superpowers would disappear.”  
  
“Oh? What superpowers are those?”  
  
Sam considered this as Castiel unlocked his car. He answered once they’d both slid into their seats.  
  
“Causing unholy messes in whatever newsroom I step into.”  
  
Castiel paused, then turned to Sam. His key remained poised beside the ignition.  
  
“You don’t cause them,” he said, all seriousness. Then he started the car and left Sam with a peculiar warmth in his chest.  
  
Castiel did not indicate where they might be going, and Sam did not particularly care. So when Castiel slowed the car, and Sam looked up to find a fuzzily familiar forest, he couldn’t help but laugh.  
  
“Any objections?” Castiel asked.  
  
“Nope,” Sam clambered out of the car, leaving behind his bag.  
  
They ambled down the sun-dappled path slowly, easily, as two people with no particular goal or particular worry. It was as if that morning had blown the top off of their worst fears, and all they could do now was accept that the sun still shone and the days still passed. The whole thing was oddly freeing.  
  
“Do you think Dean and I could end up like Lucian and Michael?” Sam asked after several minutes. Castiel remained silent for several paces.  
  
“Yes,” he said. “If you let yourself.”  
  
“Right,” Sam looked away.  
  
“Only because you two are so close,” Castiel continued. “Jimmy and I wouldn’t end up like that, we’d just forget that the other exists.  
  
“You should call him,” Sam told him.  
  
“You should finally talk to Dean.”  
  
“Okay,” Sam grinned down at his work shoes. “I’ll talk to Dean tonight if you call Jimmy. It’ll be awkward-brother-conversation night.”  
  
“I’ll call Jimmy within the week,” Castiel amended.  
  
“Cheating!”  
  
“Sam, I haven’t spoken to him for over three years,” Castiel told him sternly. “I need time to prepare.” Sam shook his head, still grinning.  
  
“Fine,” he pretended to grouse. The cabin began to take shape in the distance, behind the trunks of several trees.  
  
“Are you going to go to work on Monday?” Castiel asked as they neared.  
  
“Yes,” Sam said almost without thinking. “I want to give Raphael a chance.”  
  
A long moment of silence.  
  
“You forgive people almost too easily, Sam,” Castiel said in a low voice. “A lot of people would have quit by now.”  
  
“Dunno,” Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “I told you, Cas, you guys are all here.” Sam glanced down to find a tiny smile on Castiel’s face.  
  
They walked the rest of the way to the cabin in comfortable silence.  
  
*****  
  
Neither Dean nor Sam mentioned that day’s events until after dinner, with the game playing on low volume and the two of them slouched on the couch. Dean took the opening shot, which surprised Sam in a good way.  
  
“Y’know, and I thought we were dysfunctional,” he said apropos of nothing, still staring at the game. Sam lowered the bottle from which he’d been about to drink and cut his focus over to his brother. Something told him to remain quiet. “But I think in a screwed up way I kind of…Jesus Christ, I kind of get Michael.”  
  
“It almost makes it worse,” Sam admitted. Dean glanced over at him. Sam took in Dean’s face; the green eyes, the eye wrinkles just hovering out of view, the firm set of the jaw. He imagined the last eight years without seeing that face at all, without hearing the gruff voice that had chased away the nightmares and the childish fears growing up. And he thought he also understood Lucian hopping on a plane on a Friday morning.  
  
“I’m sorry I left,” Sam said. After so much effort put into  _avoiding_ those words, he was almost surprised that they didn’t carry more weight. But they drifted through the air like any other words, fading into silence almost immediately. Dean’s eyes softened.  
  
“Shit, Sammy,” he said without much heat. “We’re gonna do this now?”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam set his bottle down. “Because we’ve been avoiding it for the last eight years and I don’t…I don’t want us to become Lucian and Michael.”  
  
“Dude, those two have a whole other set of problems.”  
  
“Do they really?”  
  
Dean wiped a hand across the lower half of his face, looking at the TV. Sam waited.  
  
“Fine,” Dean dropped his hand. “You want to hear it?” He turned toward Sam. “I fucking hated you for a while. I didn’t…” he took a breath, “we needed you to be a family. You knew that. And you still left. You were freaking  _aching_ to leave us. And I could never figure out why we weren’t enou…” He didn’t finish the word.  
  
And the funny thing was, Sam knew all this, intrinsically. But it somehow didn’t shred him any less.  
  
“And you’re still not happy when you’re here,” Dean continued. “I mean, yeah, you had a bad work situation but you couldn’t tell me about it? Do you know how bullshit that was, that you couldn’t even vent to me about work? When you finally told me what you and Cas were up to, about Michael and Lucian, you know what? I couldn’t figure out if I wanted to hug you or beat the ever loving crap out of you for waiting to tell me.” Dean huffed a laugh that was not a laugh at all.  
  
“Ok.” Sam folded his hands in his lap, gripped so hard his knuckles turned white. “Ok,” he repeated. “Then this isn’t an excuse,” he said. “It’s an explanation. But I’ve been…always been scared of…you. No, not that way!” Sam added when Dean’s face turned mutinous. “Uh, okay, erase that. I hated myself for depending on you so much. That I couldn’t seem to do anything without your help.”  
  
“Sam,” Dean shook his head, “you’ve been doing plenty without my help, don’t fucking worry.” There was anger in his face, and Sam scrambled because of course he’d screwed it up.  
  
“I  _know_  that!” He was nearly shouting. “But you don’t get…Dean you were literally everything when we were growing up. I…I remember when I got into school I got so confused that other peoples’ older siblings didn’t change their diapers and walk them to school and…God,  _raise_ them. And I started to realize how strong you had to have been to do that and deal with dad at the same time. Then I  _knew_  I couldn’t be that strong. So I thought I had to move away from you, to stop burdening you and to learn how to support myself. Because otherwise I’d keep depending on you and you’d eventually realize that I was holding you back.”  
  
Sam closed his mouth with a click, aware that he hadn’t even realized half those things until he’d voiced them. Dean watched him, face dropping.  
  
“Goddamnit,” he muttered before he moved across the couch and captured Sam in a hug. Sam nearly cried out from the sheer familiarity, slumping into Dean despite himself. “Ok, you pain in the ass,” Dean’s voice came low. “You’re not, never have held me back. You’ve…” here Dean made a peculiar sound. “I don’t think I’d have gotten through the half the shit put in front of us if I didn’t have you there. You really think I haven’t depended on you as much as you’ve depended on me?” No, Sam realized with a funny hitch in his stomach. No, he hadn’t. “Sam, that’s what family’s about.”  
  
“Oh,” Sam said in a puff of air.  
  
“Yeah oh,” Dean pulled away, and Sam looked up to find Dean’s eyes suspiciously shiny. “You fucking dumbass.”  
  
“I’m not taking all the blame here,” Sam groused. “Most people don’t have conniption fits when their little brothers go to college.” Something in Dean deflated.  
  
“We’re not most people,” he pointed out.  
  
“Ok, well, maybe we could stand to take a few lessons,” Sam suggested. “Just…just so we stop hurting each other so much, yeah?” Dean leaned back, scrubbed his face twice. Sam shifted forward again, and suddenly it felt important to add, “Hey, I’m not going anywhere right now.” Dean eyed him suspiciously. “I want to stay here. I want to work for the Herald if I can. I want to try and get you to eat a salad.”  
  
“You like Cas too much to leave,” Dean interjected.  
  
“Well yeah, but that's not the point, Dean.”  
  
“But it’s true.”  
  
“Also not the point.”  
  
Sam glowered at Dean, who just lifted his eyebrows. And even though Sam had planned to say that, Cas notwithstanding, he also wanted to stay for Dean, to get to know his big brother again, to fall into their old rituals and maybe build some new ones, to mend the rifts between them, he decided then that he didn’t  _need_  to say any of that. It looked like Dean already knew.  
  
But he said it anyway.  
  
Dean called him a dork.  
  
*****  
  
 **The New Eldritch Herald - Monday, September 2, 2013**  
  
 **New Eldritch Herald Editor-in-Chief steps down**  
By Raphael Dusan, Gabe Lokey – Michael Alef stepped down as this newspaper’s editor-in-chief Friday morning, following the revelation that he had been accepting illicit funds from Singenta factory head, Dick Roman.  
  
 **Singenta presses charges against local factory head**  
By Rufus Turner – Dick Roman was charged for business malpractice after it had been revealed that he was involved in several misuses of corporate funds.  
  
 **OPINION: How we got here**  
By Gabe Lokey – This is how and why we’ve ended up reporting on our own editor-in-chief’s resignation and what it means for the Herald. Because you, our readers, deserve to know.  
  
 **…**  
 **…**  
  
 **To:** New Eldritch Herald Bulletin  
 **From:** Raphael Dusan  
 **Subject:** Events from the past few days.  
  
Dear all,  
  
When I began as a reporter at the New Eldritch Herald, I worked at the features desk. Michael Alef’s father, Charles Alef, was still editor-in-chief. I recall him telling me once that he’d never work for a large newspaper, that the community found in a small town newspaper was not something anyone could replicate. I spent the next ten years discovering how true that was.  
  
First, understand this: I am honored to work with each and every one of you. Your collective intelligence, drive and creativity still can astound me. Every day, you produce a newspaper worthy of New Eldritch’s community.  
  
This, however, does not excuse both my and Michael’s actions in recent years. To put the rumors to rest: yes, I have been aware of Michael’s connections with Dick Roman for roughly a year. I did discover it by accident. I did not take appropriate action. For that, I apologize.  
  
Whether or not Singenta will press charges against Michael, myself, or the newspaper is still unclear. I do believe, however, that the latter two will likely not see any legal action.  
  
Which leads to my next point. I write to you only as acting editor-in-chief. Gabriel and I have discussed this at length, and we’ve determined that we should let you decide the next step. We are setting up a polling system, to allow you to determine whom you want as the next editor-in-chief. It seemed the most prudent way.  
  
Some of you may want to know if there will even be a newspaper in the near future. This is still being determined. But know that, at this point, I have strong hopes that the New Eldritch Herald can and will survive.  
  
Thank you for your time.  
  
Raphael Dusan


	15. Epilogue

 

> _“It’s all storytelling, you know. That’s what journalism is all about.”_  
>  _\- Tom Brokaw_

 

“There they are!” Anna waved furiously. Castiel turned around to find Charlie stepping into the Roadhouse closely followed by a tall, dark haired woman with a sweetness Castiel could see from the other side of the room. Charlie spotted them and tugged Gilda after her, smiling widely enough to split her face.  
  
“Hey guys,” she said in a higher pitched voice than usual. “Gilda, these are my coworkers. Coworkers, Gilda.”  
  
Everyone made their introductions, and then Sam and Dean showed up, which led to another round of greetings and introductions. By the time Ellen had finished her work and joined them, everyone had to scoot together to make room for the extra chair.  
  
“Interesting,” Ellen was saying just beyond Anna. “She’s letting you guys vote? Who’re you wanting?”  
  
“I want Gabe to take over,” Charlie volunteered. “He’s the last of the original four really left, isn’t he?”  
  
“Gabe?” Bobby snorted. “He ain’t the leading type, Charlie.”  
  
“Well who else is there?” Anna asked. “Zachariah?” Everyone made a face.  
  
“Rachel might not be bad,” Kevin ventured.  
  
“No way!” Jo shook her head, hard. “Anna, I’m voting for you.”  
  
“God no,” Anna’s face paled. “I’d have a heart attack before beginning. Here, what about Rufus? Everyone likes him.”  
  
“I’m voting for Raphael,” Sam said in a firm, quiet voice. Several people looked up at him, causing him to shrug self-consciously. “I want to give her a chance.”  
  
The conversation veered to the large pile of emails and letters Anna had been sorting through for the past week; everything from hate mail to long letters of forgiveness and promises to keep subscriptions.  
  
“Bet we lose another huge swathe of readers though,” Kevin was saying, leaning forward on folded arms. “You don’t get that kind of hit to your reputation and just walk away.” Castiel’s eyes slid over to Sam, who caught his eye and gave a small, reassuring smile.  
  
Castiel turned his attention to Jo as she leaned forward as well. “Hey, we’re going to get them back,” she insisted, jabbing at the air with her fork. “We’re getting Sam fully on board the news section now, aren’t we?”  
  
“Damn straight,” Dean said, causing Sam to give an embarrassed, sweet grin.  
  
“Your videos are going to help too, Jo,” Sam said. Jo rolled her eyes, but looked pleased nonetheless.  
  
At one point, Castiel excused himself to go to the bathroom. He found one man already waiting outside the one-room bathroom and settled against the wall beside him. The man was scruffy and tired-looking, reading a copy of the New Eldritch Herald with studied interest. Castiel found himself watching the side of the man’s face, caught in the sense that he’d seen it before.  
  
The man glanced up and rattled his newspaper. Castiel recognized it as Monday’s edition, the “New Eldritch Herald editor-in-chief steps down,” headline stark and black.  
  
“Downright tragic,” the man said, and Castiel took a moment to realize the man was speaking to him. He rattled his newspaper again.  
  
“Michael Alef?” Castiel asked, turning slightly.  
  
“You wouldn’t have guessed.” The man folded the newspaper and stuck it under one arm, right above a flask that peeked from his pocket. “I write books now, but I started out as a newspaper man, you know.”  
  
“Oh?” Castiel said politely. Somehow the thought of mentioning that he worked for the Herald didn’t cross his mind as he added, “Where?”  
  
“Here and there,” the man waved one hand vaguely. “It’s just sad. I left newspaper ‘cause I was tired of the politics. And it doesn’t look like it’s gotten any better.”  
  
“I don’t know about that,” Castiel turned so he was facing the man completely. “I think there are a lot of excellent journalists out there. One bad apple shouldn’t spoil the rest.”  
  
“Mm,” the man shrugged. Then the bathroom door opened and the man disappeared inside, leaving Castiel with a nagging sensation in the back of his mind that he couldn’t quite grasp. When the man reemerged from the bathroom, Castiel almost asked for his name, but he’d hustled away before Castiel could catch him.  
  
The man wasn’t anywhere in sight when Castiel reentered the bar either, and Castiel might have asked Ellen if the man came here often but then he got distracted by how the yellow light illuminated everyone’s faces and the weathered, worn wood of the tables and chairs. And then of course he had to run out to his car to fetch one of his cameras and see if he could capture it.  
  
“You going to come back anytime soon?” Castiel looked up at Sam fifteen minutes after this and grinned sheepishly.  
  
“The exposure is being tricky.” He straightened and let his camera hang from his neck. Sam’s eyes wrinkled at the edges.  
  
“Soon as you’re done, you should get back over there and have Ellen repeat the story of how she hired Ash,” Sam said. “It’s pretty hilarious.” Yes, Castiel had been wondering vaguely what they’d all been laughing about.  
  
“Let me put my camera back in my car and I will,” he offered. Sam fell in step with him without a word and they walked through the Roadhouse’s front doors and into the parking lot still warm with the day’s heat. Castiel thought Sam might be humming something under his breath, but he couldn’t tell.  
  
“I wanted to tell you, I called Jimmy,” Castiel said when they were still a few feet away from his car. Sam screeched to an almost cartoonish halt.  
  
“Really?” he asked, voice bright. “Did you guys talk?”  
  
“He picked up, which was something,” Castiel said slowly, still able to taste the adrenaline that had been pumping through his system as the phone had rang. “I think….I think it was Amelia who made him do it. I could hear her voice in the background.” Sam laughed, and Castiel felt his chest lighten. “But we did talk…in a fashion. I apologized and said I wanted to see him this Thanksgiving. And he agreed. Didn’t accept my apology but he didn’t dismiss me so…”  
  
“Hey.” A warm hand landed on Castiel’s shoulder. “That’s great, Cas. It really is.”  
  
“I’m not sure whether it will turn out all right.”  
  
“I think it will. And hey, if it doesn’t, you know you always have me and Dean.”  
  
Yes, Castiel mused. Yes, he did have the Winchesters if nothing else.  
  
As Castiel set his camera in the back seat, he gestured Sam forward. “Help me bring these in,” he pointed to a pile of cheap photo albums, the type you could buy for a few dollars at the local drugstore.  
  
“What are they?” Sam asked.  
  
“Photo albums for everyone. I compiled some of my best shots of our…team from the last few weeks. A sort of,” Castiel cleared his throat. “A sort of gift, I suppose.”  
  
“Can I see?”  
  
Castiel handed Sam an album from the top of the stack and watched as two hands took the album and flipped it open. Castiel didn’t need to see the photos; they were already branded in his mind. Anna, Jo, Charlie and Kevin making faces at their laptops. Sam and Dean at their kitchen table shouting at each other with huge grins. Ellen and Bobby sitting on Dean’s armchair. A group shot of the factory workers they’d interviewed. Jo and Charlie arguing some point. Sam at Amy Pond’s house, back when she’d just been a news story. Dean smiling above a pan of taco meat. Kevin speaking to Benny, face serious and attentive. Anna serving a tray of tea. Sam captured in afternoon light walking toward the camera. Bobby about to say something in the printing press break room. All of them caught in mid-laughter, Jo’s face buried in Dean’s shoulder.  
  
Sam flipped through the album, and Castiel still did not know what his face was doing.  
  
“These are gorgeous,” Sam breathed. Castiel tilted his head up. “Cas.” All the way, and now hazel eyes met his. He was suddenly engulfed in a massive wall of Sam. Not that he minded. Not that he minded at all.  
  
Sam looked like a puppy again when they pulled apart, and Castiel decided then and there that Sam Winchester would never escape the dog comparisons.  
  
“Do you think it’s appropriate?”  
  
“I think everyone’s gonna flip,” Sam promised.  
  
“Good I…” and it was really ridiculous how Castiel couldn’t stop smiling these days. “I’m glad you approve.”  
  
Sam beamed.  
  
They gathered up the photo albums as the Kansas wind whipped over their heads and stirred the cornfield across the street. Then they turned together to reenter the Roadhouse with its warmth and light and good food and good company.

 


End file.
